#I really am "how long much could it possibly be michael? ten dollars? with doing comics and fan art huh

[stjernfelt]

Bruce googling “Top Ten Clues Your Teammates Know Your Secret Identity” There was that post going around about members of the justice league playing “fuck, marry, kill” with Bruce Wayne in the mix, and, well.

[qqueenofhades]

Re: the post you reblogged about Bush. I'm 21 and tbh feel like I can only vote for Bernie, can you explain if/why I shouldn't? Thanks and sorry if this is dumb or anything.

Oh boy. Okay, I’ll do my best here. Note that a) this will get long, and b) I’m old, Tired, and I‘m pretty sure my brain tried to kill me last night. Since by nature I am sure I will say something Controversial ™, if anyone reads this and feels a deep urge to inform me that I am Wrong, just… mark it down as me being Wrong and move on with your life. But also, really, you should read this and hopefully think about it. Because while I’m glad you asked this question, it feels like there’s a lot in your cohort who won’t, and that worries me. A lot.

First, not to sound utterly old-woman-in-a-rocking-chair ancient, people who came of age/are only old enough to have Obama be the first president that they really remember have no idea how good they had it. The world was falling the fuck apart in 2008 (not coincidentally, after 8 years of Bush). We came within a flicker of the permanent collapse of the global economy. The War on Terror was in full roar, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan were at their height, we had Dick Cheney as the cartoon supervillain before we had any of Trump’s cohort, and this was before Chelsea Manning or Edward Snowden had exposed the extent of NSA/CIA intelligence-gathering/American excesses or there was any kind of public debate around the fact that we were all surveilled all the time. And the fact that a brown guy named Barack Hussein Obama was elected in this climate seems, and still seems tbh, kind of amazing. And Obama was certainly not a Perfect President ™. He had to scale back a lot of planned initiatives, he is notorious for expanding the drone strike/extrajudicial assassination program, he still subscribed to the overall principles of neoliberalism and American exceptionalism, etc etc. There is valid criticism to be made as to how the hopey-changey optimistic rhetoric stacked up against the hard realities of political office. And yet…. at this point, given what we’re seeing from the White House on a daily basis, the depth of the parallel universe/double standards is absurd.

Because here’s the thing. Obama, his entire family, and his entire administration had to be personally/ethically flawless the whole time (and they managed that – not one scandal or arrest in eight years, against the legions of Trumpistas now being convicted) because of the absolute frothing depths of Republican hatred, racial conspiracy theories, and obstruction against him. (Remember Merrick Garland and how Mitch McConnell got away with that, and now we have Gorsuch and Kavanaugh on the Supreme Court? Because I remember that). If Obama had pulled one-tenth of the shit, one-twentieth of the shit that the Trump administration does every day, he would be gone. It also meant that people who only remember Obama think he was typical for an American president, and he wasn’t. Since about… Jimmy Carter, and definitely since Ronald Reagan, the American people have gone for the Trump model a lot more than the Obama model. Whatever your opinion on his politics or character, Obama was a constitutional law professor, a community activist, a neighborhood organizer and brilliant Ivy League intellectual who used to randomly lie awake at night thinking about income inequality. Americans don’t value intellectualism in their politicians; they just don’t. They don’t like thinking that “the elites” are smarter than them. They like the folksy populist who seems fun to have a beer with, and Reagan/Bush Senior/Clinton/Bush Junior sold this persona as hard as they possibly could. As noted in said post, Bush Junior (or Shrub as the late, great Molly Ivins memorably dubbed him) was Trump Lite but from a long-established political family who could operate like an outwardly civilized human.

The point is: when you think Obama was relatively normal (which, again, he wasn’t, for any number of reasons) and not the outlier in a much larger pattern of catastrophic damage that has been accelerated since, again, the 1980s (oh Ronnie Raygun, how you lastingly fucked us!), you miss the overall context in which this, and which Trump, happened. Like most left-wingers, I don’t agree with Obama’s recent and baffling decision to insert himself into the 2020 race and warn the Democratic candidates against being too progressive or whatever he was on about. I think he was giving into the same fear that appears to be motivating the remaining chunk of Joe Biden’s support: that middle/working-class white America won’t go for anything too wild or that might sniff of Socialism, and that Uncle Joe, recalled fondly as said folksy populist and the internet’s favorite meme grandfather from his time as VP, could pick up the votes that went to Trump last time. And that by nature, no one else can.

The underlying belief is that these white voters just can’t support anything too “un-American,” and that by pushing too hard left, Democratic candidates risk handing Trump a second term. Again: I don’t agree and I think he was mistaken in saying it. But I also can’t say that Obama of all people doesn’t know exactly the strength of the political machine operating against the Democratic Party and the progressive agenda as a whole, because he ran headfirst into it for eight years. The fact that he managed to pass any of his legislative agenda, usually before the Tea Party became a thing in 2010, is because Democrats controlled the House and Senate for the first two years of his first term. He was not perfect, but it was clear that he really did care (just look up the pictures of him with kids). He installed smart, efficient, and scandal-free people to do jobs they were qualified for. He gave us Elena Kagan and Sonia Sotomayor to join RBG on the Supreme Court. All of this seems… like a dream.

That said: here we are in a place where Biden, Bernie Sanders, and Elizabeth Warren are the front-runners for the Democratic nomination (and apparently Pete Buttigieg is getting some airplay as a dark horse candidate, which… whatever). The appeal of Biden is discussed above, and he sure as hell is not my favored candidate (frankly, I wish he’d just quit). But Sanders and Warren are 85% - 95% similar in their policy platforms. The fact that Michael “50 Billion Dollar Fortune” Bloomberg started rattling his chains about running for president is because either a Sanders or Warren presidency terrifies the outrageously exploitative billionaire capitalist oligarchy that runs this country and has been allowed to proceed essentially however the fuck they like since… you guessed it, the 1980s, the era of voodoo economics, deregulation, and the free market above all. Warren just happens to be ten years younger than Sanders and female, and Sanders’ age is not insignificant. He’s 80 years old and just had a heart attack, and there’s still a year to go to the election. It’s also more than a little eye-rolling to describe him as the only progressive candidate in the race, when he’s an old white man (however much we like and approve of his policy positions). And here’s the thing, which I think is a big part of the reason why this polarized ideological purity internet leftist culture mistrusts Warren:

She may have changed her mind on things in the past.

Scary, right? I sound like I’m being facetious, but I’m not. An argument I had to read with my own two eyes on this godforsaken hellsite was that since Warren became a Democrat around the time Clinton signed Don’t Ask Don’t Tell, she sekritly hated gay people and might still be a corporate sellout, so on and etcetera. (And don’t even get me STARTED on the fact that DADT, coming a few years after the height of the AIDS crisis which was considered God’s Judgment of the Icky Gays, was the best Clinton could realistically hope to achieve, but this smacks of White Gay Syndrome anyway and that is a whole other kettle of fish.) Bernie has always demonstrably been a democratic socialist, and: good for him. I’m serious. But because there’s the chance that Warren might not have thought exactly as she does now at any point in her life, the hysterical and paranoid left-wing elements don’t trust that she might not still secretly do so. (Zomgz!) It’s the same element that’s feeding cancel culture and “wokeness.” Nobody can be allowed to have shifted or grown in their opinions or, like a functional, thoughtful, non-insane adult, changed their beliefs when presented with compelling evidence to the contrary. To the ideological hordes, any hint of uncertainty or past failure to completely toe the line is tantamount to heresy. Any evidence of any other belief except The Correct One means that this person is functionally as bad as Trump. And frankly, it’s only the Sanders supporters who, just as in 2016, are threatening to withhold their vote in the general election if their preferred candidate doesn’t win the primary, and indeed seem weirdly proud about it.

OK, boomer Bernie or Buster.

Here’s the thing, the thing, the thing: there is never going to be an American president free of the deeply toxic elements of American ideology. There just won’t be. This country has been built how it has for 250 years, and it’s not gonna change. You are never going to have, at least not in the current system, some dream candidate who gets up there and parrots the left-wing talking points and attacks American imperialism, exceptionalism, ravaging global capitalism, military and oil addiction, etc. They want to be elected as leader of a country that has deeply internalized and taken these things to heart for its entire existence, and most of them believe it to some degree themselves. So this groupthink white liberal mentality where the only acceptable candidate is this Perfect Non-Problematic robot who has only ever had one belief their entire lives and has never ever wavered in their devotion to doctrine has really gotten bad. The Democratic Party would be considered… maybe center/mild left in most other developed countries. It’s not even really left-wing by general standards, and Sanders and Warren are the only two candidates for the nomination who are even willing to go there and explicitly put out policy proposals that challenge the systematic structure of power, oppression, and exploitation of the late-stage capitalist 21st century. Warren has the billionaires fussed, and instead of backing down, she’s doubling down. That’s part of why they’re so scared of her. (And also misogyny, because the world is depressing like that.) She is going head-on after picking a fight with some of the worst people on the planet, who are actively killing the rest of us, and I don’t know about you, but I like that.

Of course: none of this will mean squat if she (or the eventual Democratic winner, who I will vote for regardless of who it is, but as you can probably tell, she’s my ride or die) don’t a) win the White House and then do as they promised on the campaign trail, and b) don’t have a Democratic House and Senate willing to have a backbone and pass the laws. Even Nancy Pelosi, much as she’s otherwise a badass, held off on opening a formal impeachment inquiry into Trump for months out of fear it would benefit him, until the Ukraine thing fell into everyone’s laps. The Democrats are really horrible at sticking together and voting the party line the way Republicans do consistently, because Democrats are big-tent people who like to think of themselves as accepting and tolerant of other views and unwilling to force their members’ hands. The Republicans have no such qualms (and indeed, judging by their enabling of Trump, have no qualms at all). 

The modern American Republican party has become a vehicle for no-holds-barred power for rich white men at the expense of absolutely everything and everyone else, and if your rationale is that you can’t vote for the person opposing Donald Goddamn Trump is that you’re just not vibing with them on the language of that one policy proposal… well, I’m glad that you, White Middle Class Liberal, feel relatively safe that the consequences of that decision won’t affect you personally. Even if we’re due to be out of the Paris Climate Accords one day after the 2020 election, and the issue of climate change now has the most visibility it’s ever had after years of big-business, Republican-led efforts to deny and discredit the science, hey, Secret Corporate Shill, am I right? Can’t trust ‘er. Let’s go have a craft beer.

As has been said before: vote as far left as you want in the primary. Vote your ideology, vote whatever candidate you want, because the only way to make actual, real-world change is to do that. The huge, embedded, all-consuming and horrible system in which we operate is not just going to suddenly be run by fairy dust and happy thoughts overnight. Select candidates that reflect your values exactly, be as picky and ideologically militant as you want. That’s the time to do that! Then when it comes to the general election:

America is a two-party system. It sucks, but that’s the case. Third-party votes, or refraining from voting because “it doesn’t matter” are functionally useless at best and actively harmful at worst.

Either the Democratic candidate or Donald Trump will win the 2020 election.

There is absolutely no length that the Republican/GOP machine, and its malevolent allies elsewhere, will not go to in order to secure a Trump victory. None.

Any talk whatsoever about “progressive values” or any kind of liberal activism, coupled with a course of action that increases the possibility of a Trump victory, is hypocritical at best and actively malicious at worst.

This is why I found the Democratic response to Obama’s “don’t go too wild” comments interesting. Bernie doubled down on the fact that his plans have widespread public support, and he’s right. (Frankly, the fact that Sanders and Warren are polling at the top, and the fact that they’re politicians and would not be crafting these campaign messages if they didn’t know that they were being positively received, says plenty on its own). Warren cleverly highlighted and praised Obama’s accomplishments in office (i.e. the Affordable Care Act) and didn’t say squat about whether she agreed or disagreed with him, then went right back to campaigning about why billionaires suck. And some guy named Julian Castro basically blew Obama off and claimed that “any Democrat” could beat Trump in 2020, just by nature of existing and being non-insane.

This is very dangerous! Do not be Julian Castro!

As I said in my tags on the Bush post: everyone assumed that sensible people would vote for Kerry in 2004. Guess what happened? Yeah, he got Swift Boated. The race between Obama and McCain in 2008, even after those said nightmare years of Bush, was very close until the global crash broke it open in Obama’s favor, and Sarah Palin was an actual disqualifier for a politician being brazenly incompetent and unprepared. (Then again, she was a woman from a remote backwater state, not a billionaire businessman.) In 2012, we thought Corporate MormonBot Mitt Fuggin’ Romney was somehow the worst and most dangerous candidate the Republicans could offer. In 2016, up until Election Day itself, everyone assumed that HRC was a badly flawed candidate but would win anyway. And… we saw how that worked out. Complacency is literally deadly.

I was born when Reagan was still president. I’m just old enough to remember the efforts to impeach Clinton over forcing an intern to give him a BJ in the Oval Office (This led by the same Republicans making Donald Trump into a darling of the evangelical Christian right wing.) I’m definitely old enough to remember 9/11 and how America lost its mind after that, and I remember the Bush years. And, obviously, the contrast with Obama, the swing back toward Trump, and everything that has happened since. We can’t afford to do this again. We’re hanging by a thread as it is, and not just America, but the entire planet.

So yes. By all means, vote for Sanders in the primary. Then when November 3, 2020 rolls around, if you care about literally any of this at all, hold your nose if necessary and vote straight-ticket Democrat, from the president, to the House and Senate, to the state and local offices. I cannot put it more strongly than that.

[ladyeliot]

Before we go (Part One)

Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4

Pairing: Chris Evans x Fem!Reader

Summary: Your company has sent you to Boston to close a deal on the same day you have the most important date of your life at night in New York. Things get complicated, you can't return to New York and you have to spend the night in Boston with a complete stranger.

Warning: Fluff and a bit angst.

Word count: 3319

Notes:  Sorry for my spelling and grammatical mistakes, English is not my native language, I am learning.

"Sometimes we are so focused on finding our happy ending that we don't learn to analyse the signs that life offers us".

It was a clear night in April, the city of Boston, Massachusetts had welcomed you that morning, but at that moment you needed to leave it behind. You had made an express trip from New York, your home, for business knows no days or hours, so it had fallen to you to catch an early Sunday morning train to Boston, when you had a really important Sunday night appointment. You figured it wouldn't take you too long to close the deal with the big multinational, and that you'd be in New York before ten o'clock at night. So that morning you headed for Pennsylvania Station in downtown Manhattan and 3 hours and 40 minutes later you arrived at South Station in downtown Boston.

You had never been to Boston, a magnificent city with a great history that you barely had time to enjoy. You arrived carrying your coat and your bag, you didn't need anything else, besides, the less stuff you had on you the better it would be for your mobility. When you arrived you realised that the city was preparing for a nearby holiday, as many streets were blocked off, preventing traffic from passing, which meant that your taxi driver was late arriving at the company's headquarters located in "East Boston".

The meetings went on forever, your potential shareholders were not entirely sure about the future that your company could offer them, and so the hours passed incessantly without reaching any concrete agreement. The constant interruptions from your boss wanting to know the situation were not very helpful either, and the bad mood that was taking over your body, as it was your day off and therefore you shouldn't be there, was a little bump in the road.

You had set yourself a time limit, but you knew you could not return to New York City without signing that agreement or you would be removed from your position at the company. Sometimes you begged for that reinstatement, because the position of head of external relations made your life more bitter than happy. This was evident when your partner of five years, Michael, decided to give up on your relationship, you were barely home and you discovered that he had been having several encounters with a former colleague at work, finally when you told him you knew, your partner opted to leave home and take a job in Los Angeles.

At first you thought that maybe it was for the best, that you should focus on your work projects, for which you had been fighting so hard, but eventually you realised that you were really in love with him, although at no time did you justify his cheating behind your back. Your ex-partner came to you two months later regretting his behaviour and asking for a second chance, at first you were reluctant, but finally you agreed to have dinner with him, he was returning to New York for a work trip, because you loved him. The dinner was that night, the Sunday night you had to travel to Boston, Michael had been in New York for a week, but you had barely seen each other, and first thing Sunday morning he returns to Los Angeles, so you only had that opportunity to find out if it was really worth it to resume something that had been lost.

The contract was signed at exactly 9:20pm, you had to call Michael, and inform him that you were not going to make it to the dinner, but that you would go to his hotel first thing in the morning to have breakfast with him before he got on the plane, he begged you to go straight to his hotel when you arrived, whatever time it was, you finally agreed.

You were inside a taxi, the last train leaving for New York was at 9:50pm, but as usual the universe was against you. The streets had become increasingly busy, the driver informed you that the following day was Patriot's Day, an annual event commemorating the battles of Lexington and Concord, and the Battle of Menotomy, the first battles of the American Revolutionary War. You tuned out completely as I explained the history of the holiday, just staring out the window praying that you would be on time to catch that train.

"How far is it from here to South Station?" you asked when the car could barely move because of the traffic jam.

"Fifteen minutes if you walk fast and shortcut down this avenue," he commented.

Without a second thought, you offered him the fifty-dollar note you had in your hand at the ready and dashed out of the car, dodging the other cars that were crowded together at the intersection. Your negative orienteering experiences were alleviated by the city's good signage that constantly pointed you in the direction of the South Boston station. Your mind was focused on getting there before 9:50pm when the last train was leaving, it was now 9:30pm and if you were informed by the conductor that if you were going at a brisk pace you could be there in 15 minutes, that is 9:45pm.

You ran trying to dodge the crowd, constantly uttering "excuse me" and keeping a proper rhythm in your breathing so as not to choke before your time, you could tell it had been months since you had been out for exercise as you had to stop twice to catch your breath. But what took your breath away the most was when you discovered that you were carrying too little weight. You stopped dead in your tracks and looked at your arms, your hands, your bag was gone. You looked around, quickly thought about whether you might have lost it running, but realised that you had actually run so fast out of the taxi that you had completely forgotten to take your bag.

Panic invaded every limb of your body, but as you reached into your coat pockets and found the ticket that would take you back to New York you thought that was all you really needed, everything inside your bag might be replaceable in the future. You continued on your way to the station, in a few minutes you could see the entrance at the bottom of Federal Street. You quickened your pace across the square, as you tried to enter you bumped into people who were trying to exit the building slowing you down. You entered the hall a little disoriented and ran towards the platforms where the trains were leaving, you ran down the stairs, but your eyes discovered something that your mind did not want to think about, they saw how the rear lights of the last train were lost in the darkness of the night.

Your body stood still for a few moments, while your consciousness didn't understand what had just happened, or rather didn't want to understand it. In your right hand waved the ticket to New York, your only possession at the moment. You stood to one side of the stairs, so that the last two people could walk up to the station hall, while you stood for a few minutes staring at the train tracks.

You decided that all was not lost, there would be more train or even bus stations that could take you to New York that night. You retraced your steps, finding that the shops in the hall were closing, but the information window was still open. You waited until he had finished serving a customer and bowed to the gentleman.

"Excuse me, I need to go to New York tonight," you said, showing him the ticket, being as calm as possible.

"I'm sorry, but the last train had just left," he said without so much as a glance at you, counting the cash register.

"I know, I know, but I need to get to New York tonight," you insisted again. "I suppose there's another train station in the city, or even a bus station."

"I'm sorry, but the last transport to New York City is the Northeast Regional that just left this station right now," he finally laid his eyes on you, interlacing his fingers. "But first thing tomorrow morning, you'll have trains available again so you can go to New York.

"First thing tomorrow morning?" you asked a little hopefully.

"At 6:05am the first train leaves for Pennsylvania Station," he reported, staring at his electronic screen.

"I can't wait until 6:00 am tomorrow," you said, raising your tone a little. "Do you think a taxi driver would be willing to take me to New York?

"You can try," he said with a shrug. "But they're not licensed to drive outside the state of Massachusetts."

"Okay..." you said with a blank stare. "Excuse me, one last thing, if I forgot my purse in a taxi, where can I go to pick it up?"

"If he is an honest person he will have taken it to Boston police headquarters to be handed over to the Hackney lost property division," he informed you, offering me a small card. "Call here.

"Alright, thank you." Your voice sounded utterly depressed.

With a tremendous disappointment inside you, you definitely accepted his words and did not insist any more, you understood, the last means of transport connecting the Boston and New York line had left, there was no more. You took a breath nodding and realising that there was a person behind you who wanted to ask a question, you opted to head towards the nearest seats to think. You were in a completely unfamiliar city, you had to spend the night there and you had barely a coat and a useless train ticket until the next morning. Even though your thoughts were racing, trying to find a solution, you couldn't find one, there were too many negative feelings that were making you despair.

"Are you all right?" the voice came from a shadow that covered the light of the station's harsh floodlights.

You didn't answer him, just stared at him and nodded slowly, but at that very moment a station cleaner approached you.

"I'm sorry but we are closing," he reported.

"Closing?" you asked a little confused.

"The station closes from 10pm until 5am," he commented, walking away again.

That was another inconvenience your head didn't count on, you had thought that since you had to wait for a new train to leave, you could spend the night there, since you had nowhere else to go, nor money or identification that could allow you to do so. You nodded to yourself and totally disoriented you got up from your seat and headed towards the main exit of the building, you barely noticed what was going on around you, you didn't even realise how the boy who had asked you if you were alright had followed you and stood next to you.

"Do you want to share a taxi?" he asked, which brought you out of your thoughts for a moment.

"Excuse me?" you had barely heard his words.

"I was saying do you want us to share a taxi," he repeated again showing kind features on his face.

"No, I'm fine," you said and looked around again for solutions.

The young man was not giving up after your refusals, so he finally closed the taxi door and approached you again, hoping that you would finally accept the help he wanted to offer.

"Really?" he insisted, "Because it didn't look like it in there."

"I'm fine," you frowned, beginning to feel uncomfortable at his intrusion, you didn't need anyone to help you. "Really."

"Alright," he held up his hands and headed towards the taxi again. "Hey buddy! Do you think you could get this lady closer to New York?"

His words fully captured your attention, you raised your face and turned it towards the man who was talking to the driver through a rolled down window.

"To New York City?!" exclaimed the driver somewhat taken aback by your words.

"Yes!" you exclaimed running towards the rolled down window. "Specifically to Midtown Manhattan, the corner of Sixth Avenue and Bryant Park."

"Midtown Manhattan, Sixth Avenue and Bryant Park," repeated the young man who was trying to help you.

"That would be an all-night drive," declared the taxi driver hesitantly. "Besides, I can't drive in another state, they might take away my license..."

"I'll pay whatever it takes if you can get me back to New York by six in the morning," you begged with a thread of hope in your gut.

"It must be 220 miles one way," he said, doing the math. "All told, about 440, counting gas and the risk that my license could be revoked..."

"Whatever," you insisted again. "I'll pay you anything."

"All right," nodded the man, gesturing for you to get into the taxi. "We'll leave it at $1,200."

"Thank you very much, I'll pay you as soon as we get there," you informed humbly before getting into the car, which caused the situation to take an unexpected turn.

"Wait, I need half the money up front," the taxi driver began. "Otherwise we won't get out of this block."

"The truth is..." you began as your hopes dwindled.

"It's on me," said the young man next to you quickly, which caused you to half-open your lips and look at him in complete bewilderment. "You'll pay me back."

"Wait," you said stopping his hands before he pulled out his credit card. How do you know I'll pay you back, and why are you doing this?"

"I guess I'm trying to do my good deed for the day," a smile appeared on his face, which confused you even more if that was possible. "Besides, do you have another option?"

The boy offered his credit card to the taxi driver, and you were stunned when you realised that the man was paying 600 dollars to a complete stranger to travel to New York. Who the hell does that these days? Who was that guy?

"This card is expired," the driver reported, handing the card back to him through the window of the car.

"Expired?" the boy looked at it. "Shit, it expired last week. Don't worry, I've got another one."

The blue-eyed young man looked at you and smiled a sheepish smile, you had hardly smiled all day.

"It's not active," the taxi driver reported again, handing back the card.

"Shit..." the young man looked at her, " Alright, let me get my phone out and... fuck, no battery."

"Really?!" you exclaimed at the situation before your eyes. "Is there anything working in your life?"

That question you blurted out without thinking that the most unfortunate person at that moment was you, you even surpassed what had just happened to that boy. Finally the taxi driver, seeing the situation, decided to roll up his window and leave instead of wasting his time with you.

" Oh shit!" you exclaimed, holding your hands to your head as you realised that your hopes were lost.

You were the same as you were, well worse, because now you had one more disappointment inside you. You opted that the best decision was to reap your own destiny, alone, so you returned to your original position and stood looking at the car traffic at that wide intersection in the city of Boston, wondering what to do. Surely you would find another taxi driver who would decide to take you to New York, even if you didn't pay him on the spot.

"Well," said the young man approaching you again. "What do you feel like doing?"

You narrowed your eyes, not understanding why he was trying to help you, nor the need he had to spend more time with you. What was clear to you was that he was not helping.

"Do you really have nothing better to do tonight?" you asked him somewhat quizzically, with an edge to your tone.

"Wow," he arched his eyebrows in a smirk. "Is that how you treat someone who's trying to help you?"

"Help me?" you laughed, shoving your hands into your coat. "Well, I guess it's the thought that counts."

"Yeah... even if my cards don't work and I have no battery in my mobile, at least I'm at my destination," he said with irony, provoking a shudder inside you. "Come on, what do you want to do, do you want to go to a hotel?" you frowned at his words to which he laughed as he contemplated your reaction. "Oh no, I mean spend the night, correction, for you to spend the night... Alright, leave it."

"I'm not going to sit idle in a hotel," you said gruffly. "I need to get to New York before dawn."

" Alright..."

You were both silent for a while, trying to avoid thinking about Michael, how he would be waiting all night for you to come and you probably wouldn't even get there before he left for Los Angeles. But in trying not to remember your situation, you realised how rude you had been to this young man, who only seemed to be kind to you and whose name you barely knew.

"I'm sorry," you said, turning to him and nodding.

"No problem," he said smiling at you and held out his hand to you. "I'm Chris, by the way."

You nodded looking at his hand, after all he was a complete stranger and somewhat peculiar, so you opted to offer a fake name.

"Adriana," you finally shook his hand.

"Nice name," he said, putting on his red sox cap, at which point you realised that his features were somewhat familiar. "I really love the night in Boston, so I could stay here forever, but I'm pretty hungry after the trip. I know you need to get to New York, but standing here you won't be able to do much, do you feel like joining me for a bite to eat? We can figure something out while we eat."

Those words reminded you that you hadn't had a bite to eat since lunchtime, and your stomach felt resentful, it was begging for some food to be shoved in, so that plan sounded really good. On the other hand, you weren't receptive to the idea of leaving the place with a complete stranger, and you didn't have any money on you.

"I don't have any money," you reminded him. "And you don't look like you do either."

"Just because I don't have six hundred dollars on me doesn't mean I don't have money on me so we can afford to eat something," he said, flashing his sweet smile again. "Come on. I know just the place on Beacon Hill. It's not too far from here."

You took a full breath, surrendering to her idea and nodded, if you had to stay awake until six in the morning, at least you'd have a full stomach. So you started to walk to your left.

"Hey! Where are you going?" he asked hanging up his backpack again.

"Beacon Hill?" you pointed to your left.

"Beacon Hill," he said, pulling his hand out of his pocket and pointing to the opposite side.

You accepted your confusion and misdirection and with a smile you nodded and stood next to him.

"Wow, you can smile," he exclaimed. "It could be a nice night after all."

to be continued . . .

Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4

Taglist Open (DM)

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[set-phasers-to-whump]

maybe this could be your home

X=done

Prompt: slammed into a wall

Whumpee: Michael Guerin

Fandom: Roswell New Mexico

For: anon

i am so sorry that a) this took a little longer than i thought and b) its not super whump focused or whump heavy. i just kinda went where it took me, sorry! hope you like it though!!! (this is set...sometime in s2? idk when exactly though)

Michael sits across from Alex in a booth at the Crashdown, bouncing his leg. “You don’t have to, like, forgive him or anything.” He pauses for a moment, eats a few fries, tries to find his words. “You don’t owe him anything.”

“I know,” Alex says, looking at the table. “I know, and I’m not forgiving him. I just...I think he could be helpful in this whole mess? And, I don’t know, I mean, I know I don’t owe him anything, but I feel like...I have to try, I guess? Or, I don’t have to, but…”

Michael nods. He doesn’t understand Alex’s exact situation, not really. He certainly will never forgive Jesse Manes for the things he’s done. Doesn’t think Alex should either, or even bother talking to him, for that matter. But it isn’t his choice. 

“I get it.” He doesn’t, of course, but it’s not like he hasn’t been working on repairing some familial relationships lately, too.

Alex smiles, slightly, gratefully, and moves to stand. Michael stops him, reaching across the table and placing a hand onto Alex’s arm. “Be careful, okay?” he says, tries to frame it casually. “You know what he’s capable of.”

Alex nods and steps away. “Thanks,” he says, offering up another smile, slipping a ten dollar bill onto the table for his food. “We’re meeting on Wednesday, I’ll tell you how it goes.”

And then he leaves, and Michael sits in the booth and broods for a bit before reluctantly clearing out as the first wave of the dinner crowd arrives. 

He gets back to his trailer shortly before six, and spends the remainder of the evening tinkering in his lab, finally emerging close to midnight. He takes a moment before he goes inside, leaning against the metal wall of the trailer, gazing up into the cloudless night sky. Home is out there somewhere, he thinks to himself, shoving down a faint voice in the back of his head that insists, home can be here too. 

He closes his eyes and takes a few deep breaths. He’s just about to open them and head inside when he hears footsteps approaching. How had he missed that? He spins to face his almost-certainly-unwelcome guest and finds himself face-to-face with none other than Jesse Manes. 

Before he can say or do anything, Manes is shoving him backwards, pinning him to the exterior wall of his trailer with a loud clang that reverberates inside his head. 

Michael shoves the other man off of himself easily, but Manes redoubles in his efforts, striding forward and absolutely slamming Michael into the wall with such force that Michael thinks he can feel the metal bending around his body. 

Manes’ face is inches from his now, and-oh, he’s saying something, Michael realizes, and he shakes his head slightly to try to stop the ringing in his ears. His head spins, but he manages to focus.

“-is none of your damn business!” Manes is saying, his eyes alight with rage. Michael is momentarily taken back to that night in the shed, which was nothing like this but also exactly like this, with Jesse Manes dangerously close to him, making him feel all kinds of wrong and terrible, and even though Michael could easily use his powers to escape the hold Manes has on him, he can’t-he doesn’t even think to, honestly. Fear keeps him rooted to the spot, staring into those cold and angry eyes with all the defiance he can muster (which isn’t that much, at the moment). 

And then, Manes releases him, with a snap of, “stay out of my affairs, Guerin, or you won’t like what happens next.” 

Michael doesn’t have the time to process that before he sways and nearly falls to the ground, a wave of dizziness rolling over him. He blinks slowly, and then he is alone, and he sinks to his knees, feeling his back protest, only just now noticing the tang of blood in his mouth. He wonders vaguely just how hard his head had collided with the trailer wall, and tries to focus on what Manes had said to him. But his head is well and truly aching and he just feels bad, so he closes his eyes and does the only thing he can think of-calls out to Isobel and Max and hopes that they hear him.

---

He isn’t sure how much time passes before he spies the approaching headlights of Max’s car-he doesn’t think it’s been that long, but everything feels fuzzy, and it’s possible he’s been sitting out here for hours. He brings up a hand to shield his eyes as the car slows to a stop in front of him.

Isobel is first to his side, asking, “what happened?” in a voice far more laced with concern than he’s ever heard her direct at him before. He explains, in few words, his encounter with Jesse Manes.

Max looks angry, ready to stomp off and give the man a piece of his mind (and maybe his fists). Michael, however, tells him to stop. 

“Don’t go trying to be a hero, Max,” he says, his head aching with every word. “It’s fine.”

Max rounds on him. “Fine-it’s not fine, he can’t just-”

“Max,” Isobel says, shooting him a look. “He told you to drop it.”

Max sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Okay,” he says finally, his tone indicating he thinks it’s anything but. “At least let me heal you, then.”

Both Michael and Isobel snap sharp no’s at him. “You think I’m gonna let Mr. Recently-Back-From-The-Dead waste his healing powers-which he shouldn’t even be using-on a little headache?” Michael asks, shaking his head. Admittedly, it does hurt, and so does his back, and there is still the taste of blood in his mouth, but he’s fine, more or less. 

“A little acetone and I’ll be just fine,” he says, trying to sound somewhat reassuring. 

Max sighs again and relents, striding into Michael’s trailer to locate some acetone. Isobel shifts herself so she’s sitting directly in front of him, and gently takes his face in her hands, forcing him to look at her.

“You’re sure you’re fine?”

“Yeah,” Michael says, not elaborating. His head is really pounding now, but it’s not like this is an emergency. If it still hurts in the morning, maybe he’ll drop by Valenti’s place and have him check him out. He shudders mentally, hoping it won’t come to that. 

Isobel looks like she wants to say something else, but before she can, Max returns, the door slamming behind him in a way that makes Michael wince. “Sorry,” he says, handing over a bottle. 

Michael takes a long pull of the acetone, and passes the bottle to Isobel without thinking. She grins and takes a sip, settling down beside him, then gestures for Max to sit down with them. 

He does, with only minor grumbling about how it’s nearly two in the morning and they really should try to get some sleep. They pass the bottle around, and though they don’t talk, the silence feels just as comfortable.

Michael feels the last dregs of the fear he’d felt when Manes pinned him down evaporate as he sits with his siblings, leaning against the wall which had earlier been the cause of his pain (though it was relatively innocent, being as it was inanimate). 

Michael finds himself relaxing for once, feels the headache slipping away, the taste of blood in his mouth washed out with acetone. 

---

At some point, he must have drifted off, because he wakes up with the sun beating down on him, sweaty and alone. He groans, stretches, and forces himself to his feet, noting with some satisfaction that his body feels back to normal, no pain at all remaining. He stumbles inside to change into some less-gross clothes, and nearly runs smack into Isobel, who is rooting around in his cabinets, making disapproving noises.

“Morning, Michael,” she says to him. “Why don’t you have, like, anything that even resembles breakfast food?”

Michael blinks at her, looks to his left where Max is leaning against the wall. He hadn’t thought they would stay. Hadn’t thought they’d quite built their relationship back up enough for that. But here they are, in his trailer, apparently searching for breakfast. 

“We can go out?” he suggests, still somewhat stunned that they’re still here.

“Sounds good,” Max agrees, and Isobel nods. 

“Yeah,” Michael says, “okay.” He grabs his keys from the counter and heads out the door, not even looking behind him to ensure that they’re following-he knows they are. “I’ll drive.”

“I call the passenger seat!” Isobel announces, and Michael hears Max yelp in surprise before the door bangs shut. Both of his siblings race past him and have a brief shoving match which ends with Isobel in the passenger seat, a triumphant smirk on her face. Max looks significantly less happy, squashed into the middle seat, his long legs scrunched up to fit.

Michael smiles to himself as he slides behind the wheel, Isobel and Max already arguing about where they should go. This is nice, he thinks, and for once he doesn’t immediately tell the voice in his head to shut up when it insists, this is home.

hope this was okay!!!! i just love writing the siblings so much, and also i wasnt sure about any ships that you might have wanted so i kept the focus on them! anyway if you were wondering jesse was talking to michael about interfering with his and alex’s relationship (i know it was hard to tell with michaels pov but yeah). thanks for reading!!!!!!

[queen-of-deans-booty]

Sympathy for the Devil: Final Part

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 2,278

Warnings: typical supernatural violence, language, angst, blood, you know the usual

Author’s Note: the first episode of season 5! let me know what you think!

I do not own anything from Supernatural. All credit goes to their respective owners. Any and all comments on these are appreciated. I really want to hear what you guys think about this one!

Feedback is the glue that holds my writing together.

Tags at the bottom

“We need a doctor!” you yelled as you entered the nearest hospital. Sam and Dean carried your dad inside as your heart pounded in anticipation. The nurse who heard came rushing over to help to see what the problem was.

“What happened?”

“He was stabbed!”

“Can we get a gurney?” she yelled for one as two male nurses brought one.

“Daddy, you’re going to be okay,” you let the tears fall as he was placed gently on the gurney. He looked at you as they wheeled him away, and you went to follow him but the female nurse stopped you.

“Just wait here.”

“We can’t just leave him! He’s my dad!” you yelled at her.

“Just don't move. I've got questions,” she said once she left.

“Y/N, we got to go,” Dean urged.

“No! No! I can’t leave him!” your tears rolled down your cheeks.

“The demons heard where the sword is. We got to get to it before they do, if we're not too late already. He’s in good hands now. We’ll be back in no time,” he said as he grabbed your hand. He forced you out of the hospital and into the car so that they can rush to New York to one of John’s lockup storages.

As soon as Dean arrived at the lockup, you only grabbed your gun from the trunk since you won’t be needing anything else. Sam and Dean grabbed their shotguns with rock salt since that is the only thing to actually hurt a demon.

Entering the lockup, the first thing you saw was bodies on the floor. Demons if you were going to guess. There were about 4 demons dead on the ground. No other person in sight to tell you who had done it. Entering the lockup, you looked around to try and figure out if the culprit was still inside.

“I see you told the demons where the sword is,” Zachariah said from behind you with two angel escorts.

“Oh, thank god. The angels are here,” Dean said sarcastically.

“And to think... they could have grabbed it any time they wanted,” he said as he used his angelic powers to close the storage door. “It was right in front of them.”

“What do you mean?” Sam asked.

“We may have planted that particular piece of prophecy inside Chuck's skull, but it happened to be true. We did lose the Michael sword. We truly couldn't find it. Until now. You've just hand-delivered it to us.”

“Get to the damn point, Zachariah. I am in no mood to be fucked with right now,” you growled.

“It’s you, Dean. You’re the Michael sword. What, you thought you could actually kill Lucifer? You simpering wad of insecurity and self-loathing? No. You're just a human, Dean. And not much of one.”

“Yeah, but I’m not,” you said as you stepped in front of Dean. “I’m a vessel, do you remember? Do you remember who for?”

“Amara does not exist. She is not real; therefore, you can’t be her vessel. Whatever lies you are being told, that’s just it. They are lies. Dean on the other hand, he’s Michael’s weapon. Or rather his receptacle.”

“I'm a vessel?”

“You're the vessel. Michael's vessel.”

“How? Why—why me?”

“Because you're chosen! It's a great honor, Dean.”

“Oh, yeah. Yeah, life as an angel condom. That's real fun. I think I'll pass, thanks.”

“Joking. Always joking. Well... no more jokes,” he grinned before holding up his hands in the shape of a finger guns. He pointed one at Sam and the other at you. “Bang.”

A loud crunch could be heard as Sam fell to the ground with broken legs. Your spine broke and you fell to the ground once you were paralyzed. Dean looked at the two of you as you cried out in pain. Not even your magic could heal you of this.

“You son of a bitch!” Dean yelled at Zachariah.

“Keep mouthing off, I'll break more than his legs and her spine. I am completely and utterly through screwing around. The war has begun. We don't have our general. That's bad. Now, Michael is going to take his vessel and lead the final charge against the adversary. You understand me?”

“How many humans die in the crossfire, huh? A million? Five, ten?”

“Probably more. If Lucifer goes unchecked, you know how many die? All of them. He'll roast the planet alive.”

“There's a reason you're telling me this instead of just nabbing me. You need my consent. Michael needs my say-so to ride around in my skin,” Dean said. Looking at Sam, you two made eye contact to the best of your ability without having the option to move your lower body. Using your arms instead, you raised yourself to your elbows to look at Dean.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Well, there's got to be another way.”

“There is no other way. There must be a battle. Michael must defeat the serpent. It is written.”

“Yeah, maybe. But, on the other hand... Eat me. The answer's no.”

“Okay. How about this? Your friend Bobby, Y/N’s father—we know he's gravely injured. Say yes, and we'll heal him. Say no, he'll never walk again.”

“Dean don’t do it,” you sighed shakily.

“No.”

“Then how about we heal you from... stage-four stomach cancer?” he asked just as Dean doubled over in pain. He started coughing and spit blood into the palm of his hand.

“Dean!” you gasped, hating the fact that you had no chance to stop this.

“No,” Dean gasped.

“Then let's get really creative. Uh, let's see how... Sam does without his lungs. Maybe Y/N’s brain pops and explodes.”

Sam immediately started gasping for breath since he didn’t have any lungs anymore. Your brain started popping which was extremely painful. It was like one big migraine that no medicine could heal.

“Dean,” you yelled as blood started pouring from your eyes. The whites started to turn red, and you doubled over and coughed up blood. “Don’t do it.”

“Are we having fun yet? You're going to say yes, Dean,” Zachariah smiled.

“Just kill us.”

“Kill you? Oh, no. I'm just getting started,” he grinned. A bright white light shone from the other end of the room as one of the angels died. The body fell to the floor to reveal Castiel, but you were in so much pain to even appreciate the angel. The other angel that Zachariah came with started to fight Castiel, but you couldn’t focus on them.

The only thing on your mind was Dean and your dad who was all alone at the hospital. However, he did it, the angel died and now it was only Castiel and Zachariah to face off.

“How are you—”

“Alive?” he interrupted. “That's a good question. How did these two end up on that airplane? Another good question. 'Cause the angels didn't do it. I think we both know the answer, don't we?”

“No. That's not possible.”

“It scares you. Well, it should. Now, put these boys and Y/N back together and go. I won't ask twice,” he threatened. As soon as Zachariah vanished in a flutter of wings, all your pain went away. Your brain didn’t hurt and your spine was fixed. Quickly standing up, you rushed to Dean to check on him and once he nodded signaling he was alright, you rushed to Castiel and gave him a hug. He didn’t hug back but stood there awkwardly, waiting for you to finish.

“I thought you died,” you whispered.

“I did.”

“I’m glad you’re back,” you nodded with a smile, going back over to the brothers.

“You three need to be more careful.”

“Yeah, I'm starting to get that. Your frat brothers are bigger dicks than I thought.”

“I don't mean the angels. Lucifer is circling his vessel. And once he takes it, those hex bags won't be enough to protect you,” he said just as he placed both his hands on the brother’s chest. They winced in pain before Castiel did the same thing to you. A burning sensation came from your ribs, and you pulled back in pain.

“What the hell was that?” you asked.

“An Enochian sigil. It'll hide you from every angel in creation, including Lucifer.”

“What, did you just brand us with it?”

“No. I carved it into your ribs.”

“Castiel, who brought you back to life?” you asked with a whisper. If you had to guess, it would be God, but you needed to be sure. However, the angel didn’t answer and vanished before your eyes.

“Dad,” you gasped, rushing out the door to hurry back to your father.

Time seemed to slow down as you rushed into the hospital. The brothers tried to keep up with you, but you needed to see your dad.

“Where is my dad? Bobby Singer!” you asked the receptionist. Before she had a chance to answer, a nurse was calling your name from behind.

“Y/N Singer? Your father is this way,” he seemed relieved in a way, but you didn’t care. Leaving the brother’s behind, you went with the nurse to a private room. As soon as you approached the door, you could hear his voice yelling at whoever was inside.

“Unlikely to walk again?! Why, you snot-nosed son of a bitch! Wait till I get out of this bed!” he yelled. The doctor fled the room just as the nurse accompanied him. Rushing into the room, you looked at him with tears in your eyes.

“I'll use my game leg and kick your fucking ass! Yeah, you better run!” your dad yelled after the doctor. “You believe that yahoo?”

“Are you okay? I should have done something sooner,” you walked to him to try and comfort him.

“I’m fine, Y/N. Really, I am,” he sighed and placed his hand on yours in comfort.

“So, let me ask the million-dollar question. What do we do now?” Sam asked.

“Well... We save as many as we can for as long as we can, I guess. It's bad. Whoever wins, heaven or hell, we're boned.”

“What if we win?” Dean asked, a bit too confident. Everyone stared at him in concern. “I'm serious. I mean, screw the angels and the demons and their crap apocalypse. Hell, they want to fight a war, they can find their own planet. This one's ours, and I say they get the hell off it. We take 'em all on. We kill the devil. Hell, we even kill Michael if we have to. But we do it our own damn selves.”

“And how are we supposed to do all this, genius?” your dad asked.

“I got no idea. But what I do have is a GED and a give-'em-hell attitude, and I'll figure it out.”

“You are nine kinds of crazy, boy.”

“Listen, you stay on the mend. We'll see you in a bit,” Dean patted his shoulder before leaving the room.

“Sam?” he asked. Sam stopped walking but didn’t say anything. “I was awake. I know what I said back there. I just want you to know that... that was the demon talking. I ain't cutting you out, boy. Not ever.”

“Thanks Bobby,” Sam whispered.

“You're welcome. I deserve a damn medal for this, but... you're welcome.” Sam left the room and you looked at your father.

“I tried to help. That demon was too strong. I tried to fight his powers,” you stuttered.

“Hey, look at me,” he interrupted you. “This is not your fault and you need to believe it. I will be fine. I’m alive thanks to you and the boys. I’ll be okay.”

“I love you,” you said as you hugged him.

“I love you too. Now get out of here and save the damn world.”

“Okay,” you nodded with a smile before reluctantly leaving. The brothers were waiting for you outside.

“You know, I was thinking, Dean—maybe we could go after the Colt,” Sam said just as you joined them.

“Why? What difference would that make?”

“Well, we could use it on Lucifer. I mean, you just said back there—”

“I just said a bunch of crap for Bobby's benefit,” he interrupted his brother.

“Dean,” you sighed.

“It’s true. I mean, I'll fight. I'll fight till the last man, but let's at least be honest. I mean, we don't stand a snowball's chance, and you know that. I mean, hell, you of all people know that,” he directed that to his brother.

“Is there something you want to say to me?”

“I tried, Sammy. I mean, I really tried. But I just can't keep pretending that everything's all right. Because it's not. And it's never going to be. You chose a demon over your own brother and look what happened.”

“I would give anything—anything—to take it all back,” he sighed.

“I know you would. And I know how sorry you are. I do. But, man... you were the one that I depended on the most. And you let me down in ways that I can't even... I'm just—I'm having a hard time forgiving and forgetting here. You know?”

“What can I do?” Sam asked.

“Honestly? Nothing.”

“Dean, we have to try,” you tried.

“No, I already tried. I just don't... I don't think that we can ever be what we were. You know? I just don't think I can trust you.”

Sam looked up at his brother in shock. He was expecting everything else but not this. Deans shook his head and walked away, back to the car.

“It’s okay Sam,” you said as you patted his shoulder in comfort. “You still have me.”

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[letterboxd]

How I Letterboxd #2: Dave Chen

In our second of this series, we put Dave Chen in the Letterboxd spotlight. The podcaster, musician and filmmaker is most famous on Letterboxd for his weirdly specific lists. He tells us how he uses the platform, why every film that exists is miraculous, and why we shouldn’t sleep on Not Another Teen Movie.

Hi Dave! How long have you been on Letterboxd? About eight years. I believe I first signed up when it was in beta. I loved (and still love) the interface: how smooth the user flow is for logging/reviewing films, and how beautiful all that movie art looks as it’s organized on the site.

What do you mainly use Letterboxd for? I love reading the reviews on Letterboxd. On a film’s page, the site surfaces many of the most popular reviews and I find it’s a great way to find some quick, witty, and thoughtful comments on something I might be considering watching. But of course, I also love reading and making funny lists. Finally, I’ve heard Letterboxd is great for keeping track of films at a film festival but sadly I haven’t yet attended one since I started using it again.

Do you rate films? Would you consider yourself a generous or harsh rater? I rate films to remind myself how I felt about them at the time I watched. Of course, my opinions on movies change but it’s sometimes interesting to look back and think back to a time when, “Oh right, I did love that movie in the summer of 2019 when I was going through XYZ”. Our feelings about movies can often reflect what’s going on in our lives.

That said, over time, I’ve come to understand that films are miracles. I don’t think I’m the first person to come up with this observation but they are like miniature plays resulting from the collective work of hundreds or thousands of people that have been preserved for your amusement, and you can just play them on demand. Many of them cost only a few dollars. Some are free! Every film that exists is miraculous.

So, despite some of my harsh reviews, I do try to keep that perspective in mind.

You’ve been a member for a while but most of your reviews are recent. What brought you back? We note that you restarted with your third viewing of 1917! I am pretty active on Twitter and I started seeing a bunch of screen-capped reviews go viral there. But to be honest, much of social media can be exhausting to me these days. What I realized recently about Letterboxd was that much of it is free of the negativity. It’s just a bunch of folks who love movies sharing thoughts on those movies, but it also feels like a real community of people. There are filmmakers on there who share their thoughts on films and their favorites, and that’s of course endlessly fascinating (such as Sean Baker). Even the negative reviews can be fun to read. There’s a lot of pithiness and wit on the site, and its design really helps facilitate that.

Okay, take us way back, what was the film that got you hooked on cinema? My first cinematic true loves were the films of John Woo. I’d watched action movies before but I was introduced to John Woo ironically by a counselor at my church youth group! I became dazzled by movies like The Killer and Hard Boiled. It was then that I realized that things I had seen dozens of times (e.g., a shootout in a warehouse) could be elevated by sheer craftsmanship.

What keeps you from sharing your four favorites on your profile? A few reasons. For me personally, it takes months if not years for my thoughts on a film to really crystallize. My relationship with a movie doesn’t end when the credits roll—its ideas and themes and images are often clanging around in the back of my head for months if not years afterwards. As a result, my favorite films of all time change pretty frequently and I didn’t want to have to think about maintaining my four favorites over time.

Michael Caine in Alfonso Cuarón’s ‘Children of Men’ (2006).

Is there any film you could say is your all-time number one? If I had to name one though, it’d probably be Children of Men. It combines all my favorite things into one movie: science fiction, action, Michael Caine and a heartfelt message about how humanity has to be kinder to one another if we are to survive the challenging days ahead.

Your most popular lists are weirdly specific and fun (but true!). What are some other weirdly specific lists on Letterboxd that spoke to you? All the lists I like fall into that category. I love it when people make connections that I never otherwise would’ve thought of. To make a funny list, I think you need to be able to juggle extremely specific pattern recognition with a description that makes people feel like they are learning something about the films or their subjects. While the vast majority of the time these are just for fun, sometimes they actually can lead to insights about filmmakers, actors and the specific themes they try to bring to life in their work.

Also, shout out to Thijs Meuwese, who is leading the way on creative lists.

What is your favorite or most useful feature on Letterboxd? The Stats page [generated for all Pro and Patron members] is a beautiful visualization of the history of my film watching. As I continue to build out my watch history, I’m curious to see the trends that will arise.

What’s a movie where you don’t understand why Letterboxd members love or hate it so much? To answer this question, I took a look at some “worst-rated films on Letterboxd” lists and here’s a totally random one for you: the teen romantic comedy parody Not Another Teen Movie. It’s rated a 2.6 and a lot of the humor of this film has aged poorly but there are some amazing gags in here and it features Chris Evans in a performance that will likely be the apex of the comedic phase of his career. My brother and I still quote this movie to each other. Don’t sleep on it.

Chyler Leigh and Chris Evans in ‘Not Another Teen Movie’ (2001).

Your feature film, Stephen Tobolowsky’s one-man show The Primary Instinct, has a Letterboxd page and a pretty solid rating, congrats! How do you feel having that livestream of instant reactions to it? I’m glad that the ratings are decent, but to be honest, I can’t bring myself to look at them! As part of the filmmaking process, I’m totally open to constructive feedback from people I know and trust, but I’m not sure I can handle the same from strangers. Nonetheless, I’m grateful some Letterboxd members have seen fit to watch the film and take the time to rate it! Perhaps if I make more films in the future, I’ll feel better about checking out the reviews for an individual one.

Among your other skills, you are a talented musician. Can you tell us about some of your favorite film scores? Any cello-heavy scores or composers you find particularly influential? While not really cello-specific, the music of Nicholas Britell makes amazing use of strings (see Moonlight and [TV series] Succession). His music is achingly beautiful and is often in rotation in my playlists.

More generally, Hans Zimmer and John Williams are both legends and I’ve always found their work to be very interesting. In recent days, I’ve been quite taken with the work of Daniel Pemberton, whose work on films like King Arthur and The Man from U.N.C.L.E. have a great populsive energy to them. Finally, when I’m into something more moody, atmospheric or modern, I appreciate the work of Cliff Martinez.

Are you self-isolating right now due to Covid-19? Discovered anything great and new to you to pass the time? We hope everything is alright otherwise! Yes, I'm quarantining due to a “stay safe and healthy” order in Washington State right now. Like many people staying at home, I’ve been watching a lot of TV, which includes things like Tiger King, Devs, Better Call Saul, and Dave (the show on Hulu). These are the things that give me comfort and distraction these days.

Jennifer Ehle in Steven Soderbergh’s ‘Contagion’ (2011).

What are your go-to comfort movies that you recommend to people at this strange and difficult time? This is a weird recommendation, but I’d say Steven Soderberg’s Contagion is a great choice. Contagion depicts a virus far more deadly than Covid-19, and how it eventually leads to the deterioration of the social order. But it’s also a deeply hopeful movie. You see governments come together to try to figure this thing out. You see the people on the front lines risking their lives to fight the fictional virus and I think it’s a great way to help people understand how courageous and valuable all our medical workers are in times like these. It’s “competence porn” in an era where I think we need to be reminded of what competence looks like.

[Editor’s note: Dave isn’t alone, Contagion has consistently been in our 20 most popular films for the past month.]

When the universe is allowed to go back to the cinema, where do you prefer to sit? As close to the center of the theater as possible, with my eyeline at about halfway up the screen.

What’s in your ‘hall of shame’—the movies you haven’t seen and know Letterboxd will boo at you for missing? Don’t worry, we’ll protect you. The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari and Say Anything. Also Firefly, the Joss Whedon show which I don’t think is on your website anywhere. Many people have been complaining to me about this oversight in my viewership for years so I think it’ll do well if we can list it here.

Which film from the past ten years that went by fairly unloved do you think will be a future classic and you’ll fight to the death for loving? I’m going to cheat a little and list a movie that’s eleven years old: Tony Gilroy’s Duplicity. This movie didn’t do super well at the box office when it was first released and currently has a 2.8 on Letterboxd. But it was one of my top ten films that year. I think Clive Owen and Julia Roberts have great chemistry, but I think the film’s depiction of corporate espionage is outlandish, fun and irresistible. These characters are playing a "triple game" and it’s so much fun to see the layers upon layers of deception that they’re creating, and the cascading impacts they have on their relationship. Also, how can you say no to a movie that has Paul Giamatti and Tom Wilkinson as competing CEOs literally going at each other?

And finally, please name three other Letterboxd members you recommend we follow. I collaborate with Melissa on YouTube/podcast reviews and she is incredibly thoughtful and articulate. I always appreciate Khoi’s thoughtfulness. And Mike Ginn—this guy is hilarious.

You can enjoy more Dave on his website; his YouTube channel; and his podcasts The Slashfilmcast and Culturally Relevant. Dave was photographed by Brandon Hill.

[wildflowerhigh]

Second Time Around (c.h.) | Part 4

Read part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | part 5 | part 6 | part 7 | part 8

Summary: Sure, Harper is just a friend to Calum, right?

Word Count: 1.7K

A/N: Sorry I posted late! I finished writing this ages ago, I just forgot that yesterday was Friday and forgot to post. I’m just extremely stupid lol hope y’all like this one!

---

“Do any of you wanna come with me to the café?” Ashton asked, looking around the room. Calum’s hand shot up from his position on the couch, and he pulled himself up, after setting his acoustic guitar down. He had been stuck in the studio the whole night finishing up a song, and he really needed to get out.

Ashton and him walked into the café, just like they had five months ago when they had run into Harper; Calum mused about how much had happened since then. He certainly wasn’t expecting to see Harper once again, sitting at the exact same table, in an almost deja-vu like moment. She waved at them with a smile on her face, her phone in her other hand.

Calum stopped dead in his tracks, while Ashton waved back at her. “What is she doing here?”

“Oh, we meet here almost everyday. She’s normally here at the same time to eat breakfast,” Ashton replied.

Calum stood there, taken aback. Michael’s berating had left him with a lot to think about, but as of now she was just a friend. He finally waved at her, after way too long a pause, and walked over to join her.

“Good morning!” she said cheerfully, and Calum greeted her as well, taking the seat opposite her. Ashton was placing the coffee order at the counter. “How’s the album coming along?”

“Pretty good actually,” he said, voice rough from lack of sleep. She seemed to notice, and frowned slightly, but before she could ask, Ashton joined them, steering the conversation in a different direction.

The three friends sat there for quite a while, chatting away about their previous day, Calum occasionally leaning over to eat out of Harper’s breakfast, before she informed them that she had to get to work, and left. He and Ashton went back to the studio, a smile stretched across his face.

The next day, Calum jumped to his feet as soon as Ashton entered the studio. “Are you going to the café?”

“Yeah, I am.” Ashton set down his phone and started to remove his jacket. He waved at the producer sitting at the controls. “Just as soon as I finish recording a bit.” Calum looked down anxiously at his watch- it was close to the same time as yesterday, when they had gone to the café.

“Let’s go now,” he said, moving to stop Ashton as he walked to the recording booth. Ashton looked at him, puzzled.

“Why are you so desperate to go? You normally never come.”

Calum paused, his mind running a mile a minute. “I just… really want some coffee right now.”

Ashton’s eyes narrowed suspiciously at his friend, but agreed. They told the producer, who had watched the whole interaction with amusement, that they would be back in some time, and left for the café.

The minute they entered the small roadside café, Calum’s eyes scanned for Harper, and spotted her at the same table, digging into a plate of pancakes in front of her.

“Get me a vanilla latte, will you?” he muttered to Ashton, tapping him lightly on the shoulder. Harper looked up from her breakfast and waved at the two boys, and Calum grinned and went to join her, leaving Ashton to place the order.

“Could have at least paid for it,” Ashton grumbled, noticing how the two old friends talked, mesmerized with each other.

And just like that, going to the café became a daily routine. Calum said that he needed his ‘daily dose of coffee’, but most of the days never bought anything, unless Ashton got something for him.

On one of those days, when they were walking towards the café, both their phones pinged simultaneously- Harper had messaged them, informing them she couldn’t make it that day because of a meeting. Calum just stood there, scratching his head, confused about what to do next.

“We could still go get coffee, I mean, that’s what you came for everyday, right?” Ashton mocked.

Calum noticed his tone, and pushed past him, rolling his eyes. “Asshole,” he muttered, making Ashton laugh. They walked the rest of the distance to the café, and ordered their respective drinks. Calum looked back wistfully at the table where Harper might have been sitting if she had come that day.

He definitely wasn’t gonna admit to Ashton (or to himself) that the real reason he came to the café everyday was for Harper. But the intense disappointment that came over him told him that he couldn’t live in denial for much longer.

---

Calum fixed his blonde hair and pulled on his leather jacket, just as he heard the doorbell ring. He opened the door to a grinning Harper, Ashton and Kaykay.

“We’re going bowling!” Harper declared, and Ashton hooted. She sang the same phrase repeatedly, with continuous whoops from the redhead, and the two danced around each other.

“They’ve been doing this the whole time,” Kaykay said, and Calum chuckled. He grabbed his phone and keys, and stepped out and locked the door. Harper and Ashton’s little singsong and dance finally came to an end.

“Where are the others?” Calum asked.

“They’re coming there directly,” Ashton replied. They all walked down to Ashton’s car, and made their way to the mall.

The bowling plan had been made after Sierra had randomly mentioned to Luke that she had never actually been bowling before, and everyone came to the same conclusion that she had to be introduced to the game once and for all. They also figured that it would be nice to all go out together after so long, and so planned an outing to the mall.

“How good is your bowling?” Calum asked Harper, as they stood next to each other, putting on their bowling shoes.

“Best of the best, baby,” she said, smirking, and Calum’s heart beat a little faster.

“There’s no way you’re better than me,” he challenged, and her smirk grew bigger.

“You’re on, Hood.”

The group occupied two alleys due to their size, and Harper and Calum dominated their respective alleys, having the highest scores.

“This is so much fun, guys, I’m so glad we came today,” Sierra commented, and the group murmured in agreement. But Calum was only focused on Harper- well, on beating Harper. Sports always brought out his competitive side, a characteristic leftover from his footballing days.

“Let’s up the stakes, Calum,” Harper said, apparently also not responding to Sierra’s statement.

“Ooohhh,” Luke said. “Wait, what’s happening?”

“I think they’re having a face-off,” Michael stated.

“Damn right we are!” Calum exclaimed, slamming the bench dramatically and coming to his feet. When he was at the peak of his game, he fed off the attention. “What do you suggest?”

“Ten frames each. Highest score wins. Loser buys everyone ice cream.”

“That’s not exactly high stakes, is it?” Ashton remarked.

“I’m not bringing money into this, Ash,” Harper replied, glaring at him.

“Well, technically-”

“ICE CREAM!” She shook her hand threateningly at Ashton, and he raised his hand in surrender, stifling a laugh. She turned her attention back to Calum, who was tapping his fingers against the bowling ball he had picked up. Why he had an adrenaline rush from a simple game like bowling, he couldn’t understand. Could it be because he was playing against Harper? “Take it or leave it, Calum,” she continued.

“Taking it. Let’s do this.” He smirked, and grabbed a bowling ball.

The next half hour was intense. The others saw by and watched as the two competitors played, both of them getting strikes in a row. “Not bad, Romano,” he commented, when she was gearing up to play her ninth frame, and she flipped him off, making everyone laugh. Seeing the look of concentration on her face, with her eyes squinting at the pins, biting subtly into her lip, Calum could barely resist the smile that threatened to break onto his face; she looked adorable.

She expertly bowled another strike, turning around and bowing as the pins clattered behind her. Everyone cheered, and Calum stood up for his turn. Passing her as he moved to take her position, she wiggled her eyebrows at him, and smiled the smile that made his insides get all jumbled up. He felt like he was floating on air when he stepped up to bowl- and consequently, knocked down only three pins.

His friends gasped at his play, including Harper, who looked at him in shock. Still fazed by his mistake, Calum played again, still managing to knock down only four pins. He sat down, still confused by what had happened. He never got distracted like this. Harper glanced at him warily, but scored another strike, getting her the highest possible score.

By the time his last turn came around, Calum had cleared his head, and bowled a strike; but it was too late, because he was already behind on points. Harper had won.

---

Calum paid for the ice cream, and thanked the server, before grabbing his cup off the counter. Surprisingly but thankfully, they hadn’t run into any fans at the bowling alley or the ice cream shop, so the whole group ate their ice cream, loud and content. Harper slid up behind him and tapped on his shoulder, and he turned around to face her.

“Good game, that was,” she said, and he nodded. He opened his mouth to speak, but she continued speaking. “I know you let me win.”

“What?”

“You were playing so well, then you fuck up in the last round and lose? No way. Don’t know what weird male ego thing this is, but-” She pulled out a 20 dollar bill and handed it to him. “Here. For the ice cream.”

“Well, first of all, have a little more faith in your skills,” he said, taking a lick of his pistachio ice cream. “Second of all, I got distracted, that’s why I lost.” He pushed away her hand holding the bill. “You won fair and square.”

She scanned his face dubiously, before pocketing the money. “What did you get distracted by?” she questioned.

“Just… something.” He shook his head, and spooned out a little of her chocolate ice cream. “Yours tastes so much better, ugh.”

She laughed, her eyes shining bright at him, and Calum got the same feeling at the pit of his stomach as he had at the alley. Nothing to get distracted from this time, though.

---

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[missjanjie]

Branjie Fic | Bad Girls Club (5/?)

Title: Bad Girls Club Summary:  Los Angeles’ new program, the Juvenile Female Rehabilitation Program (JFRP) was created with the purpose of taking at-risk girls in the county and send them to a summer-long program located where a sleepaway camp once stood. There, they will take classes in ethics, behavior, and other courses to help mold these young minds. Brooke Lynn and Vanessa have been sent there for wildly different reasons, but with the same result - a clean permanent record. Being roomed together, the pair might find an unlikely alliance (and maybe more) in each other. Word Count: ~2.6k (this chapter)/~13.2k (total) Relationship: Branjie (Brooke Lynn Hytes/Vanessa Vanjie Mateo) Rating: E

Read on AO3

------

[October 8th, 2017]

Brooke had been staring at her bedroom door for over fifteen minutes now. She was trying to will her legs to work, will her arms to open the damn door. There had been weeks of anticipation – she had practiced what she was going to say in front of the mirror dozens of times every night. It was much more comfortable to perform intricate dances in front of a full auditorium.

Fuck it, this was it.

“Are you busy, Mom?” Brooke’s voice was meek as she poked her head around the corner into the living room.

The muffled noises of the television silenced. “No, come in.”

For the most part, Brooke Lynn wasn’t afraid of her mother. They generally kept to themselves unless otherwise necessary and cohabited perfectly adequately. But this? This was entirely different. It would change the entire course of her life drastically, possibly for the worse in the short term. Still, she knew she would regret it if she didn’t say it at all.

Brooke fidgeted with her fingers; eyes trained on the floor. “You know how I told you I didn’t want to go out with your friend’s son because he’s an anarchist?” She didn’t wait for her mother to respond. “He’s not. At least… not as far as I know. The truth is...” Her throat tightened, and her heart started to race. “I’m not attracted to him. Or any guy. I-I-I... I like girls. I’m gay, Mom.”

The ticking of the clock in the otherwise silent room felt like a bomb counting down to her world collapsing around her. Brooke Lynn needed her mom to say something, anything. “Mommy?”

Her mother sighed. “I suppose this is my fault. Perhaps if you’d spent less time with your nanny, you wouldn’t have this… misplaced need for affection.”

Brooke swallowed thickly and shook her head. “This has nothing to do with Kyle. It’s just who I am. A-And I want you to still accept me.” Her eyes welled with tears and the strength to keep the dam from breaking was dissipating with every passing moment.

“Well I don’t really have any choice but to do that now do I?” she scoffed, then added “these days they call that child abuse,” flippantly. “You’re still my daughter, Brooke Lynn. Now please be a dear and go fetch me my wine.”

“Which glass?”

“Oh no, just bring me the bottle.”

[Present Day]

“No, I don’t got no fucking wine. Where d’you think I’d keep it? In a cooler with some caviar? Look, do you want the vodka or not?”

Brooke nodded and handed the girl a twenty-dollar bill. “Yes please,” she mumbled and exchanged it for a sixteen-ounce bottle of Smirnoff. Luckily it was a rare chilly evening on campus, allowing her to smuggle the bottle in her sweatshirt (while looking over her shoulder every ten seconds) all the way back to her room, everyone she passed none the wiser.

Luckier still, the room was empty when she returned to it, allowing her to make a cocktail of vodka and fruit punch and pour the artificially red mixture into a metallic water bottle. There was a split second’s hesitation.

Having never been drunk on vodka before, Brooke Lynn didn’t know what to expect from the experience. As it turned out, it was brief euphoria and dizzy bliss followed by becoming utter comatose. It was probably for the best – to be dead to the world by the time Vanessa returned. She wasn’t ready to talk to her – she wasn’t even entirely certain why she was so upset, other than it was obviously her fault, apparently. And she felt guilty – it pained her to be the reason why her sometimes-lover was hurt.

The next morning, Vanessa was woken up by the sound of Brooke Lynn groaning. “Damn you really hungover, huh?” she observed, noting that maybe karma had laid a hand in this. “Take some Advil and get ready. You ain’t getting outta class cause you lack self-control.”

“Ugh. So mean,” Brooke grumbled and pulled the pillow over her head.

“That’s life.”

Vanessa was dressed by the time Brooke Lynn got herself out of bed. “How the hell did you get that shit in here anyway?”

Brooke rubbed her eyes as she pulled herself together. “Bought it off some girl. Said she knows a guy. And that I ask too many questions,” she recalled. “It worked though. Got me good.”

“So, you just gonna drink til you feel better?”

“That's the plan.”

[November 20th, 2017]

Brooke caught her breath as the front door shut behind her. “Okay, we’re in the clear,” she exhaled, waving the wine bottle around like a trophy and parading it in front of her as they walked up to Detox’s bedroom.

“You sure your mom’s not gonna notice she’s a bottle short?” Her eyes scanned the label with casual interest before setting it down on her end table while Brooke Lynn shifted to sit comfortably on the bed.

After a couple of moments of struggling, Brooke dislodged the cork from the bottle and took a swig. “Nah, it’s like taking one jellybean from the whole bag,” she reasoned. “Besides, it’s not like I took an expensive bottle, this is a dessert wine.”

“So, what would you call a breakfast wine?”

“The first sign of a drinking problem.”

Detox laughed and shoved her, narrowly avoiding a wine spill on her duvet. She then snatched the bottle from Brooke to down a long swig. “She still not down with the gay thing?”

There was a wince and a moment of tensing up before Brooke sighed and lay down. “If you call ‘a mounting resentment due in part to the blow in social standing from rampant gossip mixed with casual homophobia’ not being down with the gay thing, then yes.”

“You know, just ‘yes’ would’ve sufficed,” she huffed, then her expression softened. “I’m sorry shit’s still rocky between you guys. I’m sure it’ll get better eventually. You talk to Miss West about it?”

Brooke reclaimed the wine and her finger traced around the mouth of the bottle and she stared into it, as if the answer to her problems rested at the bottom. “Yeah, but she always wants to do something about it. Her heart’s in the right place but I’m not always looking for a solution. I just wanna get things off my chest sometimes.”

And her friend listened intently, nodding slowly. “Maybe you should just tell her that. Use your words like a big girl and then we can celebrate with wine instead.”

[Present Day]

Brooke poked her head into Nina’s classroom. “You got a minute?” She let herself in before getting verbal confirmation and sat herself at the edge of the teacher’s desk.

“I was actually hoping you’d come by sooner rather than later.” Nina confessed casually, not wanting to ambush her. But immediately, she saw the suspicion and hesitance in her student’s expression. “I know you were hungover in class. Think you’re okay to tell me why?”

And Brooke Lynn appreciated the way she never pressured her into divulging more than she was ready to. “I had...a falling out with Vanessa. I don’t know exactly what I said, but I’m sure it was my fault,” she sighed, “because it always fucking is.”

Nina reached out and squeezed her hand. “Come on, you know that’s not true,” she gently assured. “Have you talked to her about it?”

Brooke bit her lip and shook her head. “I don’t know how.”

She tugged on the teenager’s hand until they made eye contact. “Listen to me, Brooke Lynn, even though I know you don’t want to hear it.” Nina waited until she had her full attention. “You need to learn how to let your guard down, even if it’s just one baby step at a time. I know you like Vanessa a whole lot – more than you’re willing to admit, I’m sure. I’m not saying you have to put your heart on the line in some like, dramatic gesture, but I think you’d be opening yourself up to a great deal of happiness if you let yourself feel.”

As hard as it was to admit – in fact she may never do so outright – Brooke knew Nina was right. Of course, that didn’t mean anything in regards to her ability to actually follow through on that sort of thing. It just was not in her nature – it wasn’t in the nature of anyone in her family. “Maybe I can try…”

“After all, we don’t want a repeat of last time, right?”

Brooke yanked herself away abruptly, face flushing red. “Don’t… don’t talk about that,” and before Nina could respond, she turned on her heel and briskly left the classroom. The last thing she needed was to reopen old scars.

[March 2nd, 2018]

“You know, I’ve tolerated a lot of your weird post-outing behavior shit, but I’m not giving you a free pass on this one.” Detox clicked her tongue and shook her head. “How the fuck do you have the gall to flake out on someone like Kameron Michaels?”

Brooke gave an exaggerated eyeroll and popped a couple grapes in her mouth, eating them before answering. “It wasn’t even like, an actual date. Relax.”

Detox stared at her incredulously. “You guys have been all up on each other for like, almost two weeks. But as soon as she wants to go out with you, you drop off the face of the fucking earth! And I’d understand if it was pretty much anyone else but come on bitch – she can flip a straight girl in her sleep. Not a lot of public-school girls can pull that off around here.”

“Then she won’t miss me,” she shrugged flippantly, looking off into the distance instead of her eyes drifting anywhere near her friend.

“How’s convincing yourself of that going?”

“Swimmingly, thanks for asking.”

Detox scoffed and grabbed a handful of grapes from Brooke’s bowl. “You’re so full of shit,” she said with her mouth full.

Brooke responded with an indignant huff. “Maybe so. But it works.” The definition of working was undoubtedly skewed, but she lacked any desire to address it. She could take care of herself and not get hung up on a fling – or she’d keep telling herself that until she believed it.

And as it turned out, believing it had proven to be a near impossible hurdle to overcome and she was suffering the consequences of her own denial. But there was no way she was going to turn to Detox when this realization dawned on her – so she went to the only other person she knew she could trust.

“You look like you’ve had a rough week. Honestly, if you hadn’t come in, I’d have sought you out myself. I’m worried about you, Brooke Lynn.” Nina’s tone was gentle and kind, but there was a heavy layer of concern paired with it. And it was sincere – she had always made it her duty to take care of her students’ emotional health – especially the ones in the LGBTQ+ community, because she knew exactly what these frightened, wide-eyed girls were going through.

After some uncomfortable fidgeting and shifting around, Brooke nodded. “What happened was… I was seeing this girl casually – like, I thought we were just having fun, you know? Then she asked me on a date, and I said yes because it would’ve just been too rude not to. But then I bailed last minute, and I did apologize, and she said it was okay but… I just feel awful.”

To Nina’s credit, she was a naturally great listener, which, unsurprisingly, proved to be a massive strength in her career. She nodded attentively but never tried to interrupt or talk over her – it was imperative that students like Brooke Lynn saw her as someone they could freely and openly talk about their problems with. “Well, let’s start here – how do you feel about her?”

The first time Brooke had gone to Nina for help, she had found it jarring – it had been the first time any adult had expressed any interest in hearing about her struggles – so of course she had been keeping them all bottled up. But that day she had spent nearly two hours after the final bell rang sitting in that classroom and pouring her heart out. As much of a relief as it had been, she was left feeling nauseous the rest of that evening. Clearly, doing that with any sort of regularity has posed an issue, which is why she replied to the question with a shrug and a ‘I don’t know’ noise.

Nina didn’t buy it. “I think you do know.”

Brooke sighed in the way one would expect a pouty teenager would. “I… Yeah, I guess I like her. But I know I don’t want to date her. I don’t want a girlfriend yet.”

“Do you think it’s actually because you don’t want to? Or because you think you can’t?”

Another shrug and ‘I don’t know’ sound.

“You’ve got to work with me here, Brooke.”

This time, Brooke was at least trying her best. “It just seems like too much. I got enough going on and I feel like a relationship is just too much for me.”

“That’s a good start, you should tell her that.”

[Present Day]

“You might wanna make sure you look extra nice before you go into the dining hall today.”

Brooke had quickly learned to take everything Scarlet told her with a grain of salt. Still, her interest was piqued. “What, are they doing a news report or something? Some sort of circle-jerk of praise for being such good samaritans to us lot?”

Scarlet shook her head without any other reaction. “Nah, but a bunch of girls from your neck of the woods are volunteering, figured you might wanna put on a nice face in case you run into someone. Or maybe a paper bag over your head would do the trick,” she mused.

“Fuck my life,” Brooke groaned. “Wait for me?” she asked as she ducked back into her room. And yes, Scarlet was still there when she returned. “Too much?”

“Doubt it,” she hummed as they took the now familiar path from housing to the dining hall.

As luck would have it, most of the girls were college aged. It seemed like they were the kind that were doing this in lieu of a summer internship or something of the sort. Brooke was just about to get in line confidently when her tray dropped to the ground and her eyes went wide. “No fucking way.”

“Someone you know?”

There, in all her golden haired, tan, inked skin, toned bodied glory was Kameron Michaels. She looked just like Brooke remembered – give or take a new tattoo or two. And she was there as if it had been her job the whole time – serving the girls, smiling and making small talk – it was a stark contrast to the otherwise introverted personality she was once so familiar with.

“Yeah, something like that,” she exhaled once the initial shock had settled.

Scarlet tilted her head, observing the other girl. “You seem tense. Bad blood?”

“Not bad… It’s definitely awkward, though,” Brooke explained, muttering, “Fuck, I hope Vanessa doesn’t run into her,” under her breath.

“Too late.”

Sure enough, Vanessa had been on the line the whole time and was now face to face with Kameron. Brooke’s heart sunk to the pit of her stomach and her throat felt tight. “You know that part in a romcom where everything suddenly goes really bad really fast?”

“Of course.”

“This is it.” Her voice was high and strained. “This is definitely it.”

[artificialqueens]

Bad Girls Club (Branjie) Chapter 5 - Joley

ao3 link

[October 8th, 2017]

Brooke had been staring at her bedroom door for over fifteen minutes now. She was trying to will her legs to work, will her arms to open the damn door. There had been weeks of anticipation – she had practiced what she was going to say in front of the mirror dozens of times every night. It was much more comfortable to perform intricate dances in front of a full auditorium.

Fuck it, this was it.

“Are you busy, Mom?” Brooke’s voice was meek as she poked her head around the corner into the living room.

The muffled noises of the television silenced. “No, come in.”

For the most part, Brooke Lynn wasn’t afraid of her mother. They generally kept to themselves unless otherwise necessary and cohabited perfectly adequately. But this? This was entirely different. It would change the entire course of her life drastically, possibly for the worse in the short term. Still, she knew she would regret it if she didn’t say it at all.

Brooke fidgeted with her fingers; eyes trained on the floor. “You know how I told you I didn’t want to go out with your friend’s son because he’s an anarchist?” She didn’t wait for her mother to respond. “He’s not. At least… not as far as I know. The truth is…” Her throat tightened, and her heart started to race. “I’m not attracted to him. Or any guy. I-I-I… I like girls. I’m gay, Mom.”

The ticking of the clock in the otherwise silent room felt like a bomb counting down to her world collapsing around her. Brooke Lynn needed her mom to say something, anything. “Mommy?”

Her mother sighed. “I suppose this is my fault. Perhaps if you’d spent less time with your nanny, you wouldn’t have this… misplaced need for affection.”

Brooke swallowed thickly and shook her head. “This has nothing to do with Kyle. It’s just who I am. A-And I want you to still accept me.” Her eyes welled with tears and the strength to keep the dam from breaking was dissipating with every passing moment.

“Well I don’t really have any choice but to do that now do I?” she scoffed, then added “these days they call that child abuse,” flippantly. “You’re still my daughter, Brooke Lynn. Now please be a dear and go fetch me my wine.”

“Which glass?”

“Oh no, just bring me the bottle.”

[Present Day]

“No, I don’t got no fucking wine. Where d’you think I’d keep it? In a cooler with some caviar? Look, do you want the vodka or not?”

Brooke nodded and handed the girl a twenty-dollar bill. “Yes please,” she mumbled and exchanged it for a sixteen-ounce bottle of Smirnoff. Luckily it was a rare chilly evening on campus, allowing her to smuggle the bottle in her sweatshirt (while looking over her shoulder every ten seconds) all the way back to her room, everyone she passed none the wiser.

Luckier still, the room was empty when she returned to it, allowing her to make a cocktail of vodka and fruit punch and pour the artificially red mixture into a metallic water bottle. There was a split second’s hesitation.

Having never been drunk on vodka before, Brooke Lynn didn’t know what to expect from the experience. As it turned out, it was brief euphoria and dizzy bliss followed by becoming utter comatose. It was probably for the best – to be dead to the world by the time Vanessa returned. She wasn’t ready to talk to her – she wasn’t even entirely certain why she was so upset, other than it was obviously her fault, apparently. And she felt guilty – it pained her to be the reason why her sometimes-lover was hurt.

The next morning, Vanessa was woken up by the sound of Brooke Lynn groaning. “Damn you really hungover, huh?” she observed, noting that maybe karma had laid a hand in this. “Take some Advil and get ready. You ain’t getting outta class cause you lack self-control.”

“Ugh. So mean,” Brooke grumbled and pulled the pillow over her head.

“That’s life.”

Vanessa was dressed by the time Brooke Lynn got herself out of bed. “How the hell did you get that shit in here anyway?”

Brooke rubbed her eyes as she pulled herself together. “Bought it off some girl. Said she knows a guy. And that I ask too many questions,” she recalled. “It worked though. Got me good.”

“So, you just gonna drink til you feel better?”

“That’s the plan.”

[November 20th, 2017]

Brooke caught her breath as the front door shut behind her. “Okay, we’re in the clear,” she exhaled, waving the wine bottle around like a trophy and parading it in front of her as they walked up to Detox’s bedroom.

“You sure your mom’s not gonna notice she’s a bottle short?” Her eyes scanned the label with casual interest before setting it down on her end table while Brooke Lynn shifted to sit comfortably on the bed.

After a couple of moments of struggling, Brooke dislodged the cork from the bottle and took a swig. “Nah, it’s like taking one jellybean from the whole bag,” she reasoned. “Besides, it’s not like I took an expensive bottle, this is a dessert wine.”

“So, what would you call a breakfast wine?”

“The first sign of a drinking problem.”

Detox laughed and shoved her, narrowly avoiding a wine spill on her duvet. She then snatched the bottle from Brooke to down a long swig. “She still not down with the gay thing?”

There was a wince and a moment of tensing up before Brooke sighed and lay down. “If you call ‘a mounting resentment due in part to the blow in social standing from rampant gossip mixed with casual homophobia’ not being down with the gay thing, then yes.”

“You know, just ‘yes’ would’ve sufficed,” she huffed, then her expression softened. “I’m sorry shit’s still rocky between you guys. I’m sure it’ll get better eventually. You talk to Miss West about it?”

Brooke reclaimed the wine and her finger traced around the mouth of the bottle and she stared into it, as if the answer to her problems rested at the bottom. “Yeah, but she always wants to do something about it. Her heart’s in the right place but I’m not always looking for a solution. I just wanna get things off my chest sometimes.”

And her friend listened intently, nodding slowly. “Maybe you should just tell her that. Use your words like a big girl and then we can celebrate with wine instead.”

[Present Day]

Brooke poked her head into Nina’s classroom. “You got a minute?” She let herself in before getting verbal confirmation and sat herself at the edge of the teacher’s desk.

“I was actually hoping you’d come by sooner rather than later.” Nina confessed casually, not wanting to ambush her. But immediately, she saw the suspicion and hesitance in her student’s expression. “I know you were hungover in class. Think you’re okay to tell me why?”

And Brooke Lynn appreciated the way she never pressured her into divulging more than she was ready to. “I had…a falling out with Vanessa. I don’t know exactly what I said, but I’m sure it was my fault,” she sighed, “because it always fucking is.”

Nina reached out and squeezed her hand. “Come on, you know that’s not true,” she gently assured. “Have you talked to her about it?”

Brooke bit her lip and shook her head. “I don’t know how.”

She tugged on the teenager’s hand until they made eye contact. “Listen to me, Brooke Lynn, even though I know you don’t want to hear it.” Nina waited until she had her full attention. “You need to learn how to let your guard down, even if it’s just one baby step at a time. I know you like Vanessa a whole lot – more than you’re willing to admit, I’m sure. I’m not saying you have to put your heart on the line in some like, dramatic gesture, but I think you’d be opening yourself up to a great deal of happiness if you let yourself feel.”

As hard as it was to admit – in fact she may never do so outright – Brooke knew Nina was right. Of course, that didn’t mean anything in regards to her ability to actually follow through on that sort of thing. It just was not in her nature – it wasn’t in the nature of anyone in her family. “Maybe I can try…”

“After all, we don’t want a repeat of last time, right?”

Brooke yanked herself away abruptly, face flushing red. “Don’t… don’t talk about that,” and before Nina could respond, she turned on her heel and briskly left the classroom. The last thing she needed was to reopen old scars.

[March 2nd, 2018]

“You know, I’ve tolerated a lot of your weird post-outing behavior shit, but I’m not giving you a free pass on this one.” Detox clicked her tongue and shook her head. “How the fuck do you have the gall to flake out on someone like Kameron Michaels?”

Brooke gave an exaggerated eyeroll and popped a couple grapes in her mouth, eating them before answering. “It wasn’t even like, an actual date. Relax.”

Detox stared at her incredulously. “You guys have been all up on each other for like, almost two weeks. But as soon as she wants to go out with you, you drop off the face of the fucking earth! And I’d understand if it was pretty much anyone else but come on bitch – she can flip a straight girl in her sleep. Not a lot of public-school girls can pull that off around here.”

“Then she won’t miss me,” she shrugged flippantly, looking off into the distance instead of her eyes drifting anywhere near her friend.

“How’s convincing yourself of that going?”

“Swimmingly, thanks for asking.”

Detox scoffed and grabbed a handful of grapes from Brooke’s bowl. “You’re so full of shit,” she said with her mouth full.

Brooke responded with an indignant huff. “Maybe so. But it works.” The definition of working was undoubtedly skewed, but she lacked any desire to address it. She could take care of herself and not get hung up on a fling – or she’d keep telling herself that until she believed it.

And as it turned out, believing it had proven to be a near impossible hurdle to overcome and she was suffering the consequences of her own denial. But there was no way she was going to turn to Detox when this realization dawned on her – so she went to the only other person she knew she could trust.

“You look like you’ve had a rough week. Honestly, if you hadn’t come in, I’d have sought you out myself. I’m worried about you, Brooke Lynn.” Nina’s tone was gentle and kind, but there was a heavy layer of concern paired with it. And it was sincere – she had always made it her duty to take care of her students’ emotional health – especially the ones in the LGBTQ+ community, because she knew exactly what these frightened, wide-eyed girls were going through.

After some uncomfortable fidgeting and shifting around, Brooke nodded. “What happened was… I was seeing this girl casually – like, I thought we were just having fun, you know? Then she asked me on a date, and I said yes because it would’ve just been too rude not to. But then I bailed last minute, and I did apologize, and she said it was okay but… I just feel awful.”

To Nina’s credit, she was a naturally great listener, which, unsurprisingly, proved to be a massive strength in her career. She nodded attentively but never tried to interrupt or talk over her – it was imperative that students like Brooke Lynn saw her as someone they could freely and openly talk about their problems with. “Well, let’s start here – how do you feel about her?”

The first time Brooke had gone to Nina for help, she had found it jarring – it had been the first time any adult had expressed any interest in hearing about her struggles – so of course she had been keeping them all bottled up. But that day she had spent nearly two hours after the final bell rang sitting in that classroom and pouring her heart out. As much of a relief as it had been, she was left feeling nauseous the rest of that evening. Clearly, doing that with any sort of regularity has posed an issue, which is why she replied to the question with a shrug and a ‘I don’t know’ noise.

Nina didn’t buy it. “I think you do know.”

Brooke sighed in the way one would expect a pouty teenager would. “I… Yeah, I guess I like her. But I know I don’t want to date her. I don’t want a girlfriend yet.”

“Do you think it’s actually because you don’t want to? Or because you think you can’t?”

Another shrug and ‘I don’t know’ sound.

“You’ve got to work with me here, Brooke.”

This time, Brooke was at least trying her best. “It just seems like too much. I got enough going on and I feel like a relationship is just too much for me.”

“That’s a good start, you should tell her that.”

[Present Day]

“You might wanna make sure you look extra nice before you go into the dining hall today.”

Brooke had quickly learned to take everything Scarlet told her with a grain of salt. Still, her interest was piqued. “What, are they doing a news report or something? Some sort of circle-jerk of praise for being such good samaritans to us lot?”

Scarlet shook her head without any other reaction. “Nah, but a bunch of girls from your neck of the woods are volunteering, figured you might wanna put on a nice face in case you run into someone. Or maybe a paper bag over your head would do the trick,” she mused.

“Fuck my life,” Brooke groaned. “Wait for me?” she asked as she ducked back into her room. And yes, Scarlet was still there when she returned. “Too much?”

“Doubt it,” she hummed as they took the now familiar path from housing to the dining hall.

As luck would have it, most of the girls were college aged. It seemed like they were the kind that were doing this in lieu of a summer internship or something of the sort. Brooke was just about to get in line confidently when her tray dropped to the ground and her eyes went wide. “No fucking way.”

“Someone you know?”

There, in all her golden haired, tan, inked skin, toned bodied glory was Kameron Michaels. She looked just like Brooke remembered – give or take a new tattoo or two. And she was there as if it had been her job the whole time – serving the girls, smiling and making small talk – it was a stark contrast to the otherwise introverted personality she was once so familiar with.

“Yeah, something like that,” she exhaled once the initial shock had settled.

Scarlet tilted her head, observing the other girl. “You seem tense. Bad blood?”

“Not bad… It’s definitely awkward, though,” Brooke explained, muttering, “Fuck, I hope Vanessa doesn’t run into her,” under her breath.

“Too late.”

Sure enough, Vanessa had been on the line the whole time and was now face to face with Kameron. Brooke’s heart sunk to the pit of her stomach and her throat felt tight. “You know that part in a romcom where everything suddenly goes really bad really fast?”

“Of course.”

“This is it.” Her voice was high and strained. “This is definitely it.”

[caffeineivore]

Cheer up emo R/J

For @coppercrane2 specifically because she wanted this scene but also for whoever else wants it and needs some R/J cheer up emo.

**

If JFK is a post-apocalyptic wasteland where manners and dreams went to die, LAX is simply a clusterfuck. Raven Fletcher isn’t stupid enough to mean-mug the smarmy-looking TSA agent at the end of the line, not exactly, but the smile in place on her face is about as gruesome as Heath Ledger’s Joker. She had the whole system down pat by now-- plastic bag of toiletries, no belt, no hat, no jacket, no sunglasses, shoes that could easily be slipped off and on, no electronics and items in the pockets-- but the whole process is a drag, anyway. And of course, they still always gave her crap, and this time is no exception.

“What were you doing in LA?”

“Meeting up with some clients in the industry, catching up, making plans for New York Fashion Week.”

 “So you live in New York, then?”

“Yeah. I thought it says so on my license.” And moreover, she certainly didn’t sound like a Californian, now did she? 

The TSA agent gives her a warning look; her sass is clearly not appreciated, and undoubtedly he’d use it as an excuse to make her suffer in the next five to ten minutes and probably go through every last bit of her bags, down to counting how many tampons she stashed in and probably testing her makeup wipes to ensure that nothing was radioactive. Raven bites her tongue and tries not to roll her eyes as he beckons over a female officer to pat her down even as he paws through all her belongings. He shakes out a Dior dress that’s tucked into her garment bag that’s likely worth more than the X-ray machine that the bag just passed through, and Raven wants to ask that he change his damn gloves first, but at this rate, if he goes any slower, she’d miss her connection. Sunny weather or not, she’d be damned if she got stuck in LA for another day.

Finally, the ordeal comes to an end, which leaves her roughly half an hour to get from one end of the airport to the other on four-inch Louboutins. Raven has no problem with mowing through crowds-- sharp elbows and the aggressive New Yorker walk does wonders-- but to have to do so just to get to her gate in time is aggravating when it was certainly not her fault that the security check took so long. She certainly couldn’t just crumple up the damned Dior and stuff it back into the garment bag-- she had a client dinner right after getting back in town, and on no planet did Raven Fletcher appear at such events anything less than perfectly dressed and groomed. 

There’s the moving walkway up ahead, and she strides on, a woman on a mission, long legs eating up the length of the conveyor. Raven is a petite woman, five-foot-four before the stiletto heels and too short for the modeling work that she immerses herself in dealing with on a daily basis, but she’s leggy, and can walk, jog and possibly do step aerobics in heels with the best of them. She steps off at the end of the moving walkway, leading with her shoulders, and smacks painfully into a solid male chest.

“I’m so sorry. Are you all right, miss?” A pair of big hands wrap around her elbows and pull her up, and had she landed any harder, she probably would have broken a thousand-dollar heel, and perhaps an ankle. Raven looks up from legs clad in casual gray chinos to a torso in blue tweed, with brown elbow patches, up into an almost-unforgivably handsome face, all golden California tan and tousled, sun-bleached blond hair, wearing horn-rimmed glasses over his baby blues. And... headphones. Of course. Because it would certainly be too much to ask for a man to be too perfect, so this particular specimen had to be moseying through the airport deaf to his surroundings like an oblivious moron.

“I would be better if you were watching where you were going, but forget about it.” She bypasses the hand he holds out to help her up, and snags both her garment bag and her briefcase. Her ankle gives her a twinge as she stands up, but she stalks off without a backward glance. If she hurried, she’d have just enough time to pop into the Starbucks by her gate for a quad venti iced macchiato to wash down the Excedrin before getting on the plane. 

The boarding process, after she reaches her gate, and where someone else might have passed their time sleeping or watching a movie or two on the five-hour flight, Raven opens her briefcase after the plane reaches cruising altitude to organize her files for the upcoming client dinner. Not that there is much to do, really, because Morgan Austen, even at age seventeen, didn’t exactly require much of an introduction. Blonde and willowy and charming and self-assured, the girl’s celebrity background might have gotten her in the door, but she’d certainly lived up to all the hype. Only too often were the celebrity actor-model types unforgivably uppity and spoiled, and while a small, petty part of Raven enjoyed putting them in their place as needed, it always came as a pleasant surprise when someone didn’t have to get told off for their own good. 

Her heart gives a pitter-patter, though, when she reaches inside the bag and feels, underneath her manicured fingertips, a bunch of manila folders rather than the sleek leather portfolio that should be contained in that compartment. Cautiously, she draws out the papers, then only barely manages to avoid swearing loudly and noticeably in the airplane cabin. 

“You’ve got to be freaking kidding me. This is a joke. A really bad joke.”

In place of the carefully-curated and prepped collection of headshots and polaroids of Morgan Austen is a collection of lab reports, all with the header of ‘153BH, UCLA/Huntley’. Raven has exactly zero interest in the subject of Nucleotide Metabolism, and the worst part about it is the fact that she has a whole three and a half hours before the plane lands and she can even get on her phone to do something about this mishap. 

It’s the longest three and a half hours of her life, feels like, and she pulls out her cell phone almost before the flight attendants turn off the seatbelt sign, calls the agency to postpone the dinner with the rep from Michael Kors.

“Yeah, there’s been a problem with my bag. Stupid LAX. Can you just... tell them my flight was delayed, or something? They’ll be a-o-fucking-kay because they’re getting Morgan Austen to walk their damn show in a month and it’ll be the biggest thing to happen to them since dude designed Michelle Obama’s official portrait dress. Thanks, Luna. You’re a whole bag of organic non-GMO peaches. And... someone’s calling, and it’s a 310 area code, so I’m going to let you go.”

She recognizes the area code as Los Angeles, of course, and expects that it’s some minion from some customer service desk in LAX reporting that they’d found her bag, but the voice which comes through is male and sounds oddly familiar, with that faint Calfornian drawl. “Am I speaking to Ms. Raven Fletcher?”

“Yeah. Who’s this?”

“My name is Jude Huntley, and we bumped into each other at the airport? I seem to have your work bag rather than mine.” The tone is summery-smooth and apologetic, the cadence quick yet lacking the almost-harsh briskness of Manhattan. “It’s entirely my fault, and I’m going to get your bag back to you, but could you tell me where you’d like to pick it up?”

“Well, if you can’t tell, I’m kinda on the opposite coast to you now, buddy. Elite Models, New York, New York. We’re on 5th Avenue.” He doesn’t seem at all fazed by her slightly snotty tone, which takes the wind out of her sails, just a little. “Look, pal, if you want to send off my bag to New York, that’d be great. I can do the same with yours. UCLA, right? At least it’s summertime. Hopefully school’s out for you. Shitty time for me to lose my bag because summer’s prime time for campaigns, but it’s not like my stuff can just magically appear overnight.” All around her, people are rising up from their seats, and Raven scowls at nothing in particular. “I gotta get off the plane. Look, since you clearly got my number from my card, you can get the address, too. I’ll get your bag back to you as soon as I can.” 

She hangs up, and seethes from the gate all the way to the taxi stand and then all the way to her apartment, before kicking off the heels and unapologetically ordering pizza delivery, to be consumed with wine while soaking in the tub. After the day she’d had, it was the least she deserved.

**

Raven arrives at the agency at eight o’clock sharp the next morning, with the briefcase-that-is-not-hers in one hand, a giant to-go cup of coffee in the other, and spends the first hour of her day making a phone call to the reps at Michael Kors to explain her bag mishap and reschedule the dinner meeting. Thankfully, Morgan Austen’s name is enough to negate any wrath which might have been incurred at the inconvenience, and, crisis averted, she’s just about ready to schedule a conference call-- with a talent scout out in BFE, Cornfields, Small-town USA somewhere-or-another-- when her assistant Phoebe knocks on the door. The diminuitive brunette has a peculiar look in her beady eyes.

“Someone’s here to see you. No appointment. Great face but I doubt he’s a model, unless he’s doing some sort of ad for Geek Chic. Says his name is Jude. Do you know a Jude? I didn’t think you knew a Jude, though this guy’s sort of got the hot younger Jude Law thing going on so...”

Raven’s eyebrows shoot up to her hairline. She’s only made the acquaintance of one individual by that name, and certainly Phoebe is wrong. There is no freaking way that the man from the airport in Los Angeles was actually in New York at this very second. She waves in a vague manner at Phoebe, who takes it as assent to let him in, and then her jaw drops. It’s the man from the airport, all right. Still wearing his tweed jacket and his horn-rimmed glasses, but now sporting dark-blond five-o’clock shadow like gold dust smudged against his chiseled jaw and deep shadows under those blue eyes. But his lips quirk into a smile when he sees her, and he holds out her bag, like an olive branch.

“You asked for it to be overnighted, didn’t you? I took the red-eye over.”

“But--- but---why?” Flying a red-eye from coast to coast is the worst, and doing so on standby just seemed like her own idea of Hell on Earth. “You could’ve just dropped it off at a FedEx. I...” She had barely been civil to him on the phone, and definitely was on the wrong side of rude when they’d bumped into each other at the airport. Under no circumstance could Raven see a reason for a man-- especially one who looked as though he had a job and a life well on the other side of the country-- to drop everything just to bring her her bag back in person. 

But rather than give her a hard time, the man named Jude smiles, and it’s a great smile, with a dimple in both cheeks and in the chin. Geek chic indeed... “Well, I need those lab reports back, too. Summer class. I have a commitment to my students to get it back to them by Friday, and they’re kind of time consuming to grade. Call it an impulse, I guess.” He’s still holding out her bag, and this time she takes it, and belatedly hands him his own. “Anyway, let’s start over again. My name is Jude Huntley, and I’m an assistant professor at UCLA’s Chemistry department.”

“Raven Fletcher. I’m an agent here at Elite Models. Nice to meet you.” Two almost-identical bags switch hands, just before his fingers close around hers, and the touch is warm and sharp with the brush of static electricity. Raven’s fairly sure that her spine is, metaphorically speaking, stainless steel. And yet a shiver works its way up and down as he holds on for just a moment too long, and a decidedly unfamiliar warmth creeps up into her cheeks as he smiles at her again. 

“The pleasure is definitely all mine.”

[jarrodwbrown]

Brokenness and A Plan for Mass Transformation.

A man, lying in the road, literally on fire.  A flame wicking off of his heal as bystanders looked on for the best shot with their phone cameras.  Then the attention shifted to something moving in the bushes, and as the camera changed its focus a person, perhaps a woman was moving, the look on her face was of desperation, burned from head to foot, skin coming off.  Noone to offer help.  No ambulance on the way.  No LifeFlight to the nearest burn unit.  This was on the road just a few miles from the school Mission Lazarus operates in North-East Haiti.  The man in the road was driving a motorcycle carrying the woman from the side of the road along with two five gallon jugs of gasoline when they wrecked.  The gasoline quickly combusted and engulfed the two in an inescapable inferno.  The driver hadn’t lasted long and the woman in the bushes would not last long either.  This did not have to happen but due to a massive fuel shortage in Haiti the people have been forced to take drastic measures to obtain fuel.  Fuel for their cars to get to work and fuel for their generators so that their businesses can operate (only 20% of Haiti has electricity).  So while it might seem obvious that carrying two jugs of gasoline on the back of a motorcycle would be extremely dangerous everything is relative in Haiti.  

I will probably make someone mad by writing this.  What I’m trying to say will most likely not be understood by more than one person.  I know that my life experiences are unique and that they have greatly shaped who I am, how I think, and how I view others, the world, and the Kingdom of God.  I cannot avoid using my lenses to see but I do recognize that not everyone has my lenses.  I hope that this will give you insights into how I see the transformational work that I believe that as followers of Jesus we are all called to.  

On thursday afternoon September 12 I was flying from Cap Haitien, Haiti back to the US after a week packed full of reviews and planning meetings.  My trip was a success and I was blessed to be with our team there.  But I was exhausted.  Not exhausted from working hard, something that I’m accustomed to, rather exhausted emotionally from the clear reality of life in Haiti.  I was exhausted and I was only there for five days.  

If you’re not aware, Haiti has been plagued this year by political turmoil.  From a massive government report detailing how  billions of Dollars, were skimmed off of the Haiti / Venezuela discounted fuel program “PetroCaribe”, to a fuel hike to reduce the level of government subsidy on the price of fuel, and to fuel shortages throughout the country due to a shortage of US Dollars to pay for fuel imports since the PetroCaribe scheme collapsed.  Those three primary issues coupled with a democratic political system that resembles more of a playground of bullies rather than the leaders of the nation, where the Survivor TV series tagline of “Outwit, Outlast, & Outplay” takes on a whole new meaning.  These realities can lead to many problems, one of the most common is massive protests and a crippling of the nation’s already fragile transportation infrastructure.  These protests are often times at the beckoning of whatever politician’s agenda is looking to stir something up this week and whether or not he has 1,000 Gourde bills to hand out (Haitien currency where roughly 100 Gourdes = $1).   Since 1,000 Gourdes is about US $10 or twice what a well paid Haitien garment factory work would normally make in a day it is easy to understand why unemployed men, young and old, will quickly take to the streets to block roads for the day for $10 each.  A rather cheap way to inflict possibly fatal political wounds on your political rivals.  And also a rather easy way to provide some food for your family for the day.  

However, when the protests get out of control and the crowds become mobs, when the road blockages become riots and the mob mentality takes over, all safety and security guarantees that should be afforded to private citizens of any democratic country are off of the table.  Such has been the case numerous times this year in Haiti resulting in the US state department declaring Haiti a Level 4 travel risk, the same level of travel risk shared by nations like North Korea, Afghanistan, and Iraq, for a few months this past summer.  But we’re talking about Haiti, our neighbor, just 900 miles from Miami, a 90 minute flight.  The result was economic devastation with hotels and restaurants throughout the impoverished island struggling to survive.  Travel booking sites like Expedia removed, at least for a while, all hotel and flight options to Haiti from their sites.   And not only has the tourism industry been affected but nearly all industry in Haiti.  When it is unsafe to go to work or when it’s unsafe to get home from work or when it’s unsafe to transport your goods to the port for export or when you cannot distribute your goods throughout the country then the entire nation is affected.  And then there are the  ministries or aid organizations operating in Haiti.  For better or for worse you cannot deny the incredible economic boost that foreign ministries and aid organizations provide to the Haitian economy.  Thousands of travelers come every year to Haiti to serve and when they don’t travel the loss of Dollars that are spent to house, host, transport and entertain missions and aid workers is devastating.  Tens of millions of Dollars are invested annually by these organizations as well, invested in everything from from water wells to new houses and schools.  All of which is put at risk when the country is practically shut down.  

The results of a year of political turmoil were seen everywhere on my recent trip.  In a country where brokenness is hardly able to be hidden.  Where the reality of living in a fallen world is ever apparent, not hidden by the excesses of materialism enjoyed by the West, the brokenness is palpable in a different way.  In North-East Haiti, where we focus our efforts, added to the political turmoil has been a prolonged drought which has made growing even the hardiest of crops, such as okra, nearly impossible, much less a crop of Haitian staples like rice, corn, and beans.  As I encountered friends from the rural villages we serve in, men and women alike, the result was obvious.  Malnutrition.  Plainly put everywhere you look the farming families we work with are skinny, bone skinny.  They never were exactly healthy but now these families were for sure suffering.  Another, more subtle result, is stress.  It was noticeable on the faces of our local leadership.  The constant concern over how will I get to this place or that, or if I get there will I get home or worse will I get home safely has taken its toll on our team.  While I was there last week I witnessed hundreds if not thousands of factory workers from the Caracol Industrial Park walking back to their homes in Cap Haitien, some 10 miles away, because their buses could not pass through the numerous road blocks along the way.   This level of stress is exhausting.  While generally a protest or road blockage rarely turns violent the possibility is that it always could.  And yet, day after day, our leaders make our operations happen.  They make it to work.  They make sure that our programs continue.  They make sure that our school can function.  They make sure that the teachers have the materials they need.  They make sure that the kitchen has food for breakfast and lunch everyday.  And they make sure that, even if just for six or seven hours a day,  the children of the Academie Lazare are able to be children, able to enjoy the most basic of things like a plate of food, a classroom to learn in, a playground to play on, and a safespace behind a wall that separates them from the painful reality of their village, their community, and their nation.  

So why bother?  It’s too broken to even fix.  I think that this same conversation could be had often or maybe has been had, between God and Jesus, or perhaps Gabriel and Michael, away from the earshot of God, have discussed this very topic, but in regards to the US, or perhaps even with regards to those “Christians” in the US, or maybe it’s with regards to humanity as a whole.  I don’t really think they are limited or defined by geo-political lines that man has drawn across the globe that seem to somehow indicate that this nation has or has not been deemed worthy.  In the US our strong economy, our good jobs, our nice houses, our facades tend to fool us to believe that we’re not broken when in reality the brokenness of Haiti is ever present in the US as well, we’ve just become skilled experts at covering up the stinch.  No it’s not evidenced by piles of burning trash on the side of the road covered in 300 pound hogs rooting for a meal, or poor roads making travel a nightmare or even by starving families, it’s evidenced by our own divisive politics that is hell bent on dividing our nation by political color or even skin color and by religion.  It’s evidenced by schools and churches, rather than being safe havens they are becoming targets for individuals who are obviously not well, who are broken and are hell bent on forcing their brokenness on others.  It’s evidenced by our economy, not the dire lack of economic activity but rather an obsession with spending and an overwhelming number of families drowning in debt.  It’s evidenced by corporate expansion that defies all logic, generating shareholder wealth at the expense of the most vulnerable in the foerign countries where they manufacture their wares.  So why bother?  It would appear that it’s too broken to even fix.  

We  learn from Jesus’ teachings that he came for all of mankind but his approach was to focus on the 1.  And that as a good pastor he’ll leave 99 behind to go after the 1.  The 1 woman by the well, the one blind man, the one tax collector, the 1 Jarrod, the 1 you, the 1 Haitian.  He’s always been about the individual, that 1!  He ministered 1 by 1, 1 at a time.  He healed 1 by 1, loved 1 by 1, and transformed 1 by 1.  He knew that the brokenness of man could not be cured in mass, rather that individual transformation requires individual attention and when massive numbers of individuals have been transformed then the masses are able to invest in massive numbers of 1.  Jesus knew that his saving ministry individual approach must be shared because serving the individual 1 by 1 was slow and unless there were others doing the same thing many, if not most, would be lost.  His investment in the disciples, 1 by 1, loving them, 1 by 1, correcting them 1 by 1, and encouraging them 1 by 1, put into motion a series of relationships and discipling opportunities that continues to this day, you and I are a direct result of that intentional effort, 1 by 1.  

Back to Haiti.  Would I like to see the city streets of Cap Haitien clean?  Sure.  Would I like to see the beauty of the Haitian countryside restored to what it once was?  Sure.  Would I like to see her coastline sparkling turquoise blue again? Sure.  I’d also like to see an end to brokenness in the US, failed marriages, addiction, abuse, debt, hate, and bigotry.  Sure I would.  But if I only focus on the masses and the enormity of the brokenness then I’ll never notice the impact that I’m having as a disciple of Jesus, one of his ambassadors, one of his representatives on this earth who is investing in the life of one other person.  I do not believe that the social political problems of Haiti, or any country for that matter, will be solved by schemes and strategies to solve social-political problems.  I do however believe, wholeheartedly, that when followers of Jesus invest their time, talent, and treasure in just 1 then there is a ripple effect, that grows exponentially.  Where 1 quickly becomes 10 and 10 quickly becomes 100 and 100 quickly becomes 1,000 and so on and so on.  I gave up on politicians solving the brokenness of our nation or any other nation a long time ago.  But I’ve not given up on believers, like you and I, doing what we can to guarantee that Jesus’s proclamation in John 10:10 not be a lie to billions of people living in brokenness in this world, some rich and some poor, but all broken.  

“I have come that they may have life, and have life in abundance.”  John 10:10

[hearteyes-for-killmonger]

Finger Rings

Dedicated to my judy @vanitykocaine . She been so patient with me getting this out.

Drama, pettiness, and smut.

*Read the fic she wrote for me called Green Goddess it's so good!!!!

--------------

"Yeah, I'm coming are you coming?.. Uh huh.. Yeah, Maya, you better!" You smile into the phone and wander through Macy's as your favorite cousin Maya's chipper voice affirms that she will in fact be in attendance at your dad's birthday party. It'd been too long since you'd seen her. You both were so busy. You find the watches and secure a Michael Kors for your dad.. something slight. He'll love it.

"Yeah.. Yeah, Uncle Ray will be drunk as always you know that.." You pay and take the watch box choosing to forgo a large bag in favor of getting a cute small one from Dollar Tree. You have to get a card anyway.

"Huh? No!" You laugh and push the glass door open but freeze when you hear a loud grunt. You look up to see a six foot man grabbing his nose. His hat on the floor, knocked off from the impact of the door. His locs, braided back neatly, are on display and he looks ready to cuss someone out. Instantly you hang up the phone. 

"I am.. so sorry, wow. I didn't mean to do that.."

He drops his hand and he's easily one of the most attractive guys you've ever seen. The ice in his eyes melts once he looks at you. And then he really looks at you, scanning you completely. "I'm fine. Just look before you leap next time, sweetheart," he says gently, grabbing his hat from the ground and you shift to the side allowing him to pass. He smells like cinnamon. 

Feeling like a low-key creep, you wait about 10 seconds before re-entering the store after him. The man was truly fine and you kept your distance so not to be spotted, but you followed him around the men's department. Mm Mm Mm, yes. His deep green button down exposed his strong forearms leading to thick, stubby ring-decked fingers. You press your thighs together imagining those fingers inside you. He makes his selections and purchases, then it's off to the exit and you follow him to see which direction he goes in.

"Is there a reason you're following me?" His grainy voice comes from your right and you stop short feeling like you ought to be on Dateline.

"Can I have your number," you blurt and he smirks. "Nah sweetheart. I got a whole girl."

"Oh. My bad then," you nod with a small smile of no hard feelings and head off in the direction of your car. You pull off and hit the Dollar Tree like you planned before your dad's party. It started sometime around 6 p.m. When you enter at 7:45, everything's already in full swing and the house is full. You hug everyone you're supposed to as they ring out their chorus of welcomes. You find your mom with your aunt in the kitchen fixing plates and she kisses your cheek before directing you outside to your dad. You find him behind the grill, one of his favorite places. You greet him with a bearhug he's so excited to see you. You decide to save the gift for when he's done grilling. For now, he's surrounded by your mom's brothers and older men you don't know. He seems to realize that and starts pointing from person to person telling you who they are. A couple of them give you gross vibes but you choose to ignore it. Thankfully they're distracted by a card game and beer bottles are everywhere. Your eyes meet another pair of eyes that are already on you and yours widen in surprise. This guy.

"That's one’s Erik. He came with Maya," your dad says and Erik gives you a brief nod that you return.

"VANITY," a loud voice booms from behind you and a grin cracks like lightening across your face as you spin. "MAYA!" You wrap her in a tight embrace and she rocks you from side to side. She’s glowing. She's cut her hair and got rid of the scarring you remember always seeing on her arms. "You look amazing," you say still awed. She starts beaming, "I know! So do you. Have you met my boyfriend, Erik?" You're pushed over in his direction and he glances at you briefly before looking back to Maya.

"This is Erik.. and Babe, this is my cousin Vanity. Ain't she beautiful!" The pride in Maya's voice is evident.

"She cool," Erik shrugs and the awkwardness of it all brings a weird vibe that pushes you back inside. Besides, you’re ready to eat. You head to the kitchen and it's empty so you fix your plate and set up at the table to eat in peace. Not even five minutes later, you hear a chorus of high swooning voices mixed in with Erik's bass and he enters the kitchen. It's obvious everyone here loves him, men and women alike. You start to ignore him, but he speaks first.

"So you're Vanity. I heard a lot about you from Maya, she loves you."

"She's my favorite cousin. Don't tell the others," you deadpan. He smirks and then brings his plate to the table, sitting next to you.

“I think we got off on the wrong foot. We saw each other earlier, you hit me with a door, I thought you were cute, that was it. Ain’t no real reason for this to get awkward.”

You nod. “Yeah I was surprised to see you at my parents’ house, but I’m happy for you and Maya.”

The two of you make small talk which somehow turns into a discussion of the Stanford Prison Experiment. The more you talk to him, the more you realize that he’s actually interesting and a decent guy. Funny, smart, charming. You can see why everyone’s in love with him especially with those dimples. He has a smile that could break your heart.

“Can I ask you something,” his grainy voice interrupts your silent admiration. “Yeah, go ahead.”

“Since you know her so well.. how do I break up with Maya without hurting her feelings?”

“....YOU DON’T,” you stare him down to let him know that he better not break that girl’s heart. As happy as she looked.

“But if I did break up with her.. would I have a chance with you?”

“Get the hell out,” you stand and trash your empty paper plate, pissed and withdrawing every mental compliment you gave him.

“Nah chill,” he says, “You can come out now Maya.”

Maya peeps her small head around the corner before rounding it, shame and guilt etched deeply into her features.

“I’m so sorry, Vanity, I don’t know what came over me! I just.. I saw you two.. and it looked like you knew each other.. and then.. I thought maybe..,” she sighs heavily. “I shoulda known that you would never do something like that to me because you aren’t like that at all. I’m a horrible cousin. I’m sorry.”

You stand there dumbfounded, not because you don’t understand what just happened, but because Maya.. really thought that low of you to test you and try to catch you in some kind of lie instead of coming to you with her concerns. So much for favorites.

“You know what.. I’m out of here,” you say brushing pass her. She looks so apologetic, but right now you’re so over it. You walk back outside and let your dad know you’re leaving. He’s sad and it hurts you because you did just get there, but you promise to come back and blame the sudden departure on your job. He understands that. You relay the same message to your mom and like your dad, she’s sad about it but understands. However, she won’t let you leave without taking a couple plates with you. Rather than have her fix them, since she’s been spread thin already taking care of everyone else, you decide to suck it up and go back to the kitchen. Maya isn’t there, but Erik is still in the same place. You ignore him and start spooning food onto your plates.

“For what’s it’s worth, she is sorry. She thought we had something and needed proof that we didn’t.”

Angrily you turn to face him. “We didn’t even speak! Why would she think that?”

“Because she knows my type.. and I couldn’t look at you so she knew I was feeling you. I fucked that one up.”

“Okay, but why would she think that about ME? I’ve never hurt her like that.”

“Your cousin is very jealous and she actin up. That’s why she on punishment outside right now. To be honest, we aren’t even dating. We just have an understanding and it’s easier to tell other people in conservative circles that we’re dating.”

Punishment? .. Actually, no, their personal life is none of your business. You look for the aluminum foil but it’s missing and you groan in annoyance. Erik produces it and waves it at you.

“What is that supposed to mean to me?”

“It means if you’re interested, I’m single.”

“BYE,” you take your plates and head out of the kitchen and out of the house.

---

Your office is abuzz with chatter and you check your email. It's just a reminder of the audit coming up for your department. You've been at your cubicle all day getting your files and documents straight when your phone buzzes. Maya. You ignore it for ten minutes before you open it.

He dumped me

You reply

Sucks

Her response is instant

Like you ain't know

Y'all had me thinking I was crazy but you really are a thieving bitch

She starts typing some more stuff but you block her number before it comes through. So much for family. Shorty after, you get a text from an unknown number.

She contact you?

I told her you had nothing to do with it

Erik. This whole thing was ridiculous. The fiasco was four days ago and you were still dealing with nonsense. You start to block Erik's number too, but pettiness strikes. If you were going to be accused of and called a bitch for something, you might as well do it.

Meet me at 1422 Girbo Ave in 2 hours

It's a restaurant you like that's thirty minutes away giving you enough time to wrap up at work.

---

You ask for Stevens at the front, remembering his name. The two of you had actually really vibed before you realized it was part of a ploy. It's possible the two of you could pick up that vibe again, if only to get your payback. Erik is already there with a booth and you slide in ordering a raspberry tea.

"Wassup. You look good." He's gazing at you but he himself looks as delicious as two desserts. Your mind had tried to downplay him in the last couple of days and you'd forgotten.

"So do you.." You flip through your menu looking for something you haven't had.

"Get what you want it's on me," he says and you immediately flip to the steaks, not because you want one but because he still ain't shit and you know it. He smirks, aware of what you're doing and the two of you make small talk until the waiter comes to take your orders. He orders what you originally planned to order and you think of switching plates with him when the food comes. The more you slip back into conversion with him, you realize the vibe is still there. It's just that you can't get pass what went down. You were innocent. You decide to change the topic to the real issue.

"Yeah that's wild... But Erik, we really need to talk about this thing with you and my cousin. You tw--"

"I'm tryna fuck you in the bathroom then we can eat and talk as much as you want, princess. I'll answer any questions you have."

He doesn't wait for a response, he slides out from the booth and walks around to help you out. This was happening much faster than you planned and he was grabbing the reigns.

He pulls you up the stairs and down a short hall to the bathrooms which means he's been here before to know where they are. In the women's restroom there's a middle aged white woman washing her hands at the sink and she looks up equally surprised and appalled. Erik grins at her through the mirror and guides you into the accessible toilet where he pushes your back against the door. His lips go straight to yours and when you fold into it, returning the passion he pulls away to rest his forehead on yours.

"I know you're just here for a revenge fuck. I'm not stupid, Vanity. But I was serious when I said I was interested. I like you an--"

"I don't care, Erik. Just fuck me." You take off your blouse and your skirt to speed things up and his eyes roam your body quickly. He kisses his teeth.

"Look, I'm tryna be real with you for a change and tell you how I feel about you and you gone say you d--"

"I DON'T CARE."

He looks genuinely hurt. Emotion flashes in his eyes as they scan your face before steeling. Then his original coldness is back.

"Aight... Cool. You don't care. That's why I'm a turn yo ass into a junkie and leave you in this stall."

"Erik, you're wasting my time. You gone fuck m--"

He spins you to face the stall door and smashes your cheek hard into it with one hand while his other snatches roughly at your panties. You feel them pull against you and when they rip, he tosses them before landing four hard slaps on your buttcheek.. each one harder than the last. You reach back to block, but his bone-chilling voice is directly in your ear saying, "Move that gotdamn hand." You do and a harder slap comes bringing a heavy hiss from you.

You hear his zipper and then with no warning he plunges deeply into you causing you to yell from the the combination of his size and the impact.

"Shut the fuck up," his hand clamps around your mouth, "Unless you want an audience." You didn't see his dick but you didn't expect this. You try to adjust but his thrusts are coming hard and consistently. You can't scream, but you groan loudly around his hand and it only gets higher. The hand on your mouth adjusts to pinch your nose shut as well immediately cutting off your volume as well as you air supply.

"I told you to shut the fuck up. Both you and your cousin get on my damn nerves."

His breathing tells you he's just as turned on as you are as he pounds into you and you have to tap his hand him to let you breathe. You feel yourself stretched to capacity and he's hitting every nerve you have as you gasp quietly for air.

"I feel you squeezing on this dick. Call me daddy if you wanna cum." You struggle to control your volume and somehow he thrusts deeper when you take too long.

"SHIT. I'm gonna cum, daddy," you moan in uneven spurts.

"What was that? I ain't hear you?"

"Can I cum, daddy, shit!" This time you're louder.

"Nah, hold that shit."

You know you can't and you punch the door trying not to scream bloody murder. You hear his soft chuckle.

"Okay let go, princess. Go ahead."

He doesn't need to tell you twice, you cum hard and before you can come down, he spins you to face him again, pushing your back against the door. He lifts your thighs over his strong forearms and re-enters you.

"Don't drop me," you moan breathlessly and he shoots you a strange look before moving you from the door that you thought was supporting your weight. He bounces you in air and each time you come down on his dick he hits your g-spot making you cuss with every thrust.

"You don't care?... HUH?"

You can hardly put a sentence together.

"I.. fuck.. I care.. I care.. I-I fuckin care!"

He places your back against the wall again and smirks, still going. "I know, baby. I know. I feel you shaking gone head come on Daddy dick."

You end up squirting on him and the floor and he sets you down on your feet. You lean against the door for balance but move when he unlocks it allowing it to swing open.

"Put your clothes on and come eat," he says before disappearing from the bathroom and you redress quickly and unsteadily. He's at the booth when you get there and when you sit down he looks you in the eye and tells you again that he and Maya are done. This time you listen. Afterall... there was a connection between the two of you.

"So your mama birthday in two weeks, I hear. Am I invited or nah?"

How messyyyy.. when the whole fam just saw him with Maya! Maya especially would be pissed when she got the news. It'd definitely get back to her...

"Yeah.. come through!"

😁😁😁

@sweetsexysavagery @inlovewithmakeupcomicsanimelove @panthergoddessbast @mermaidchansons @ironsquad @destinio1 @killmongersmisstress @scrumptiouslytenaciouscrusade @siriuslycollins @shesfromwakanda @sicksadgen @heyauntieeee @muse-of-mbaku @lovemekaycee @radi0active-thoughts @drsunshine97 @blackpantherismyish @honeycoatedgld @tgigoldie @imaginewhoever @ash-moneyy @texasbama @thadelightfulone @niggarachi15 @wakanda-inspired @thehomierobbstark @bartierbakarimobisson @violet-ines @hidden-treasures21 @myboyfriendgiriboy @bubbly-nammu @killmvnger @phoenixxx1225 @ineffabl-y @kreolemami @supersizemeplz @janellemonaenae @sadblvckkgirl @magic-madness-heavensin @cccccx1 @purplehairgawdess @indigoxsummers @kxnfuzed @wawakanda-btch @ange-sensuel @princessstevens @vanitykocaine @allhailnjadaka @amethyst1993

[supercasey]

The Perfect Child

Description: Michael Peterson was raised to be the perfect child. Perfect grades, perfect manners, perfect actions... unfortunately, his little brother wasn't. When all you've ever known is perfection, how can you possibly handle average?

A/N: So this is my first “creepypasta”, although I’ve been writing for about six years now. I really love reading creepypastas, so I finally gathered the energy to write one of my own. It’s not as scary as it could be, so it’s more an allegory for my own insecurities. Constructive criticism is appreciated, but please refrain from being too harsh (I’m a huge wimp lmao). With that said, I hope you enjoy this piece!

Hello, my name is Michael. I am a seventeen year old boy, and I’m a perfect child. Please, allow me to explain:

I was born mid March, 2002, in Kansas. I was born on a hundred acre property, settled out of the public eye. When I was young, I saw nothing wrong with this. My life, as far as I could tell, was like any other child’s. From the moment I was able to walk, I was surrounded by other children, and for the most part, we were left to our own devices. The land we lived on held numerous barns, which were our room and board. We spent many a day running in the open fields, catching bugs, and playing small games together. We didn’t have names; we didn’t know what a name was. We didn’t talk either… no one had ever heard a word. No one screamed; those who screamed would be gone the next morning.

Three times a day, a siren would go off in all of the barns. Instinctively, we would all return to our beds (beds we had never once thought to move or not sleep in), and we’d find bowls of food waiting for us. It wasn’t sludge or nasty garbage either; we had steamed vegetables, baked chicken, eggs of all varieties, and much, much more. We didn’t know where it came from, it was always just there, waiting for us. No one had ever taught us to eat, but we ate in a dignified manner nonetheless, never spitting out our food or opening our mouths midway. After we ate, we would go right back outside to play in the sunshine.

It never rained. It never snowed. We had never seen a cloud in the sky before. The sun would rise and set indefinitely, and we never bothered keeping the time. We only played. Sometime when I was around four, my life changed. That day had been like any other; I slept, played, and ate. But that night… I went to bed, but I couldn’t fall asleep. This had never happened before. When I sat up and looked around, I saw a few other kids weren’t sleeping either. They were just as confused as me. Everyone else was out cold, unable to wake up, not that we tried to wake them. Suddenly, a group of adults filtered into the room, dressed in full body hazmat suits.

No one said a word- again, we had no concept of language- and we didn’t move either. We just let them approach us (an adult for each conscious child), pick us up, and carry us out of the barn. Once outside, they took us towards a building I had somehow never noticed before. It wasn’t a mansion, but it was easily three stories tall, and was painted white with a lovely blue trim. The adults took us inside, and in there, everything about my life was drastically changed. After being tucked into a brand new bed (though it looked no different from my old one) and falling asleep, my mind adapted.

When I awoke, I could speak. I spoke fluently, something no normal four year old could do. The other children could do the same. We could also read, write, and draw, things that were improved upon throughout the next year. For one year, the adults, who never once removed their hazmat suits, tutored and taught us within that house. We weren’t allowed outside anymore; that was for the little kids. I excelled at everything they told me to do. I washed the dishes best, was the most creative artist, spoke the most clearly, and was reading at a high school level by the time I was five.

The day before I turned five years old, I was pulled aside from the other children, and taken into the basement. I had never been in the basement before. It was nothing like any basement I had ever heard of, either. The walls were a beautiful redwood, and the carpeting wasn’t the least bit cold, even though I wasn’t wearing socks. Quickly, I was led into a small office, where I finally met an unmasked adult for the first time in my life. Behind the ivory desk sat a plump, mid aged woman with greying hair, dark brown eyes, and saggy skin. In front of the desk sat two women, both young and beautiful, decked out in their finest attire.

As soon as we walked in, one of the young women cooed at me- something I had never heard before, but I knew what it was from reading of it- and held her arms out to me. Without missing a beat, I smiled at her, and obediently walked up and hugged her. I had never given, or received, a hug before. Both women were ecstatic, and for the rest of the meeting, I was traded from lap to lap, both women taking turns cuddling me. The meeting was more of a business transaction than anything else; the lady behind the desk showed the two women a binder, filled to the brim with information on me. She listed my traits, my mannerisms, and health record. All perfect, just as ordered.

At the end of the meeting, the older woman- who I learned was called The Provider- seemed happy, and with a big smile, took a sheet of paper out of a drawer and laid it on the desk, presenting it to the young couple. It was an adoption form. The two ladies gladly filled it out, giving me my first and only name; Michael Damian Peterson. Afterwards, the employee who had brought me in scooped me up, took me out of the room, and got me ready. I was given a long bath, dressed in a red sweater with blue overalls, had my hair cut to be shaggy but short, and was fitted with a pair of white socks and black sneakers.

Once ready, I was returned to the young couple, who gasped and cooed at what I was wearing. Again, I was never set down, and they swiftly completed the transaction- handing The Provider a check for ten million dollars- and left. Internally, I wanted to run around the moment we stepped outside, as I hadn’t been outside in a year, but it was dark out and I was very tired, so I didn’t fuss. The couple took me to a sleek, brand new black minivan, complete with a hot rod flame design on the sides. When they opened the backseat, I was greeted with the sight of a large booster seat, and was strapped in immediately.

We left soon after, driving down a seemingly endless road. The windows were darkened, and with it being nighttime, I couldn't see a thing. It was then that the couple explained what was happening. Their names, to me, were Mama and Mommy, and I was to be their new son. They had always wanted a child, but due to their professions, they were unable to have or even adopt one through legal means. It was then that they were approached by a friend, who raved to them about the incredible work Perfect Children did. They then learned about a remote farm, out in the backend of Kansas, that specializing in producing ‘perfect’ children.

I was told, in no uncertain terms, that I was bred to be perfect, but they admitted that not every child bred by Perfect Children was that way. In fact, more than ninety percent of them weren’t even close to perfect. So… what happened to the ones who weren’t perfect? I was told that they were picked out early in the program- around five to six months of age- and placed into the Bad House. A little ways away from the main buildings, sat a large, decaying barn, that was overflowing with needy, loud children that simply weren’t good. Sometimes they got better, Mama admitted, but those were very rare.

Again, I was confused. What happened in the Bad House? Mommy filled me in. “Those children… who simply aren’t perfect,” She had actually sighed, clearly disappointed. At the time, I thought it was with the company. It was only when I got older did I learn that she was upset with the children themselves. “Those children are for slaughter.”

“There are people in this world- and especially in our profession- that also want children. But not for raising,” Mama had seemed… hesitant to tell me these things, but after getting a nod from Mommy, she swallowed, then continued. “Sometimes, people want to have an imperfect child for… leisure. Maybe when you’re a little older, I’ll tell you more, but for now,” She put on the warmest smile I had ever seen, and before I could react, a little screen emerged from the roof of the van. “How about some TV, sweetie?”

I don’t remember the rest of the car ride. In fact, most of my memories of the farm have faded. Most of what I know now was learned later in life, but I do, somehow, remember my fifth birthday. When we arrived at our destination, the sun was rising, and I could finally see out the windows. What I saw… was incredible. Just on the horizon, I could see a massive, luxurious mansion. Even from a distance, I could see the first bits of the garden, surrounding the mansion in a field of different flowers. Mama must’ve noticed my gawking, because as I was looking, she cheerfully told me that the mansion I saw was OUR house… my new home.

When we arrived, there were already people waiting. Mommy and Mama’s friends. None of them had children of their own, but they cheered as Mommy parked the car, and came running once Mama had me in her arms. The party was spectacular. Everyone brought me at least five presents each, and they all gushed over me, telling my mothers how precious I looked. My manners were impeccable, and I never once acted out. I allowed the adults to pass me around, and even when they weren’t hovering around me, I still kept up my manners. I even offered to clean the dishes, something my mothers assured I could do later.

That night, I was brought to my bedroom. The room was painted baby blue, and despite having unwrapped enough toys to last me a lifetime during the party, my room was already filled with plenty of toys for me. I was promptly tucked into bed, read a bedtime story, and given two goodnight kisses. I fell asleep immediately.

From then on, I was the perfect child. Once enrolled in school, I was the best of my class. I never once got anything lower than 100% on all my assignments and tests, I was friendly with everyone in my grade, and I volunteered to help my teachers at every occasion. My mothers always beamed at the praise my teachers gave, and when pressed for how I could possibly be so good, my mothers would exchange a knowing smile, and happily tell my teachers the same answer each and every time: “Love.”

When I was six, my mothers wanted another child. I was unable to feel any form of jealousy. A week after my birthday, I was left with a babysitter, and when my mothers returned home, they brought me a brother. He was five when he arrived, just like I was, but he was… different. Where I was well behaved and honest, my brother- named Kyle- was good… to a point. He was ecstatic the first few weeks, clearly happy to be living with me and my mothers, but he soon began to make mischief.

I remember his first big prank. It had been a few weeks after he arrived, and while we were playing quietly in the living room, he asked me for a cup of water. I did as told. As soon as I opened the fridge, a jug of Kool-Aid spilled on me. I didn't cry. I didn’t get angry. I cleaned up the mess, approached Mama, and told her what had happened. When she questioned Kyle about it, he burst out laughing at the sight of me, still drenched in Kool-Aid. Mama laughed too, at least a little, before sentencing him to a time out. He took it calmly, and afterwards, it was water under the bridge… or rather, Kool-Aid under the fridge. Mama never could get the stain out.

Not a week later, and another prank occurred, this time getting Mommy. Kyle had taken the liberty of collecting every grasshopper he could find and hiding them in Mommy’s purse. The scream she let out when it opened was incredibly loud, and instinctively, I fixed her up a mug of hot chocolate while she went about punishing Kyle. He got another time out, and was made to write an apology letter to Mommy. He did so, though his handwriting was sloppy, and the incident was again forgiven.

But his misdemeanors continued. It quickly occurred to me that Kyle was one for mischief, but wasn’t outright malicious. He just liked to frighten folks, and wanted to make us all laugh, though he didn’t understand why no one else found him funny. Things soon got worse. He too was enrolled in school, but he took it badly. While I continued to excel, he barely passed anything, and routinely got into fights and arguments with his classmates and teachers. I tried to help him; I took a few punches for trying to end fights, and even if I ended up getting on the other student’s good side, my brother would get right back into it the moment I stepped away.

While my mothers had taken Kyle’s pranks and misbehavior somewhat well beforehand, they didn’t care for his school troubles. They routinely lectured him as to why he needed to get better grades, treat others better, etcetera. But he refused to behave. By the time I was seven, my mothers had reached their limit.

It was June when Kyle was returned. I was woken up at three in the morning by a frazzled Mama, who I obeyed to the letter. I dressed myself in my clothes and followed her out the door, and into the waiting minivan. Kyle was already there, screaming and biting at his carseat’s buckle. Mommy was in the driver’s seat, panting and angry, but with determination in her eyes. Mama turned up the radio several times on the way there, but Kyle’s screeching was hard to drown out. I tried giving him kisses and hugs, but he only bit and hit at me. When we arrived at the farm… I felt an icy chill up my spine. I stood beside Mommy and Mama outside the car, the sound of Kyle’s sobbing almost deafening.

There were no children in sight, and The Provider was waiting outside the farmhouse for us. She greeted my mothers kindly, and asked what they were there for.

“A return.” Mommy had said, her voice chillingly calm.

“Oh?” The Provider had appeared confused at first. She turned to me, head tilted. “And here I thought this one was one of our best products… was there a malfunction?”

“Oh no, not with Michael. He’s just as perfect as we’d hoped,” Mama explained, all of her usual kindness and love on display. However, it seemed to slip away- like a mask- the moment she brought up my little brother. “No, the problem is with Kyle.”

They was an audible sigh from The Provider. “I should have known… yes, I hate to say ‘I told you so’, but I did warn you about that one. I must ask; what else did you expect from an imperfect child from the slaughterhouse? Yes, they’re plenty fine for some, but when you’ve only ever had perfection,” She smiled at me as she said that, patting me endearingly on the head. “It’s hard to deal with normal children after you’ve had a taste of perfect.”

“That’s why we’re here, ma’am. We’d like to make… a return,” There was hesitation in Mommy’s words, and even at seven years old, I could tell she was second guessing herself. “We won’t have to see it happen, will we?”

“Heavens no! No no no… we’ll take it from here,” Suddenly, a few men approached the car, opening the side door and pulling out Kyle. They weren’t the least bit gentle with him. “In fact, we have a customer coming today for a ‘leisure’ child… I’m sure he’ll adore this one.”

“MOMMY! PLEASE, DON’T GO!” Kyle’s screaming turned to begging, the terror on his face apparent. I’ll admit, some part of me was confused; life here had only ever been kind to me, if not a bit boring. What was he so scared of? “I PROMISE TO BE GOOD! I’LL BE PERFECT! PLEASE!”

“Please hurry with him; I can’t stand that racket anymore…” Mommy rubbed at her head, a clear headache coming on.

Immediately, I retrieved a bottle of water alongside some Advil for her from her purse, holding the items up to her. “Here you go, Mommy. I love you.” I said, not even aware I was doing so. I was rarely aware of my actions.

The Provider grinned at me, chuckling to herself. “You see how much easier a perfect child is? So attentive, always willing to fulfill your needs,” She suddenly came closer, leaning in as if she had some big secret only available for my mothers. “You know, we have a few new ones that are ready for adoption… if you’d like, I’ll give you a good bargain for a replacement for the inconvenience. Perhaps a daughter? We have some precious little girls that are raring to go.”

It seemed to do the trick, as Mommy and Mama brightened at the news. Kyle didn’t. “NO! PLEASE! MAMA, MOMMY, I LOVE YOU! I’LL BE PERFECT! I’LL BE PERFECT! PLEASE DON’T LEAVE ME HERE!”

“Can we see them?” Mama had entirely ignored Kyle, more interested in the little girls that were available. “A daughter sounds absolutely lovely.”

“Right this way then,” The Provider was quick to lead us inside, away from Kyle and the security guards holding him. “I have the most perfect little girls ready for you.”

I’ll be honest with you… my memory of Kyle is weak. Sometimes I think he was a dream. Other times, when I close my eyes, I can still see the smile he’d give me when he ate anything sweet, or played with me in the garden, or managed to get a laugh out of someone. That day, when we came back out to the car, a little girl in Mommy’s arms, Kyle was gone. I never saw him again. My mothers named my sister Scarlett, and just as promised, she was perfect. Together, we were perfect siblings. If one fell, the other helped them up. We played games together, but never roughly. We never once fought. We hugged and loved each other, all while strangers swooned over the ‘precious siblings’.

Scarlett also got perfect grades, was friendly with everyone in her class, and went out of her way to help her teachers. Again, my mothers were flooded with praise, and they grinned as though it was all their doing.

When Kyle’s old teachers asked about him, Mommy provided the news: “He passed away. Tragic, really.”

When I was fifteen, my life changed… again. Scarlett was thirteen. We had been at school, both at lunch together, when we were approached by two men in police uniforms. We cooperated entirely, and were led out of the school, into the parking lot, and into separate police cruisers. We didn’t cry. We didn’t ask questions. We obeyed. Once we arrived at the police station and sat down with the sheriff, we were given the news; Perfect Children had been discovered by the FBI, and promptly shut down. Inside the farmhouse, they had found all the records on every child that had been sold on the property. We weren’t allowed to see our mothers anymore.

Again, we didn’t cry. We didn’t ask questions. I held my sister’s hand under the table and we obeyed.

It’s been two years, and I’m only just beginning to become my own person. I’m still not sure exactly what Perfect Children did to make me the way I am… the FBI agent who lets me call her Mom says it was a lot of things; the food, the water, the subliminal messages that they played while I was sleeping, the chip on the back of my neck… but I’m getting better. We all are.

I’m living in a hospital for right now, living with all the other kids they could track down involved with the company… Mom told me it’s because we’re all too impressionable to be around regular people. We’re too inclined to obey, and now that people know what happened… they’re looking for us. They want perfection.

Scarlett handles things better than me. She can laugh on her own now, something she’s really proud of. She managed to prank me a few weeks ago. It wasn’t much, just switched my pillow for her’s, but it reminded me of Kyle. I told my therapist about him, and she says that I’m getting better, too. I can speak, sometimes, without being prompted. It’s not much, but it’s better than before. Yesterday, one of the boys yelled after someone stepped on his foot. We all got very quiet, but one of the supervisors started cheering, and pretty soon, other kids yelled, too. I can’t do that yet, but that’s okay. I’ll get better.

I don’t know where my mothers are… Mom says that they’re in prison, and not just because they bought me and Scarlett. I thought of asking what else they were in for- something that made me feel very, very wrong- but I didn’t. I’m not sure I want to know.

Someday, I’m going to get better. It’s hard to imagine not being perfect, but it’s also… nice. It’s freeing. I want to yell. I want to pull pranks. I want to laugh. Someday I’ll get there, and when I do, I’ll get out of this hospital and be a normal person. Scarlett wants to get an apartment with me, and I think I’d like that. It won’t be perfect- nothing ever will be again- but you know what? I’m excited. I’m happy. I’m getting better.

The kids they pulled out of the Bad House are doing better than any of us. Most of them are older- averaging in their mid twenties- so they act a lot like older siblings to all of us. They’re trying to help us yell, and think for ourselves, and take things. None of them are Kyle. I tried looking around, but I can’t find him. Deep down, where I’ve secretly always felt things, I knew I was never going to see him again, but… I had always hoped I could. One of the imperfect boys let’s me call him Kyle sometimes. He likes the name, and he reminds me of him, so we’re going with that for now. Scarlett won’t comment on it, but I hope she will someday. Any reaction is a good reaction around here.

For their hard work as tutors to us, some of the other perfect kids have tried to return the favor. We give them names, like how I named Kyle. They don’t always stick- Duncan didn’t like Lauren’s first suggestion of ‘Dragon Slayer’- but some do. We also help with handwriting, since almost none of them have ever written before, or read for that matter. Now when I go into the cafeteria, I can see a group of imperfects learning basic table manners, while a perfect girl tries to chew with her mouth open. Mom is proud of me- of all of us- and I think I am too. I’m not perfect anymore… maybe I never was. Oh well. I’m learning to not care.

Thanks for listening to my story… stay imperfect.

A/N: There! I hope you all at least liked it. If not, why not tell me why? BTW, the reason I gave the main character two moms wasn’t to try and be like “having two moms is bad”, I just want to normalize queer relationships, and if I can do it through my writing I like to do so. Have a great day!

[asdeathbutinlife]

A Life Too Short and a Life Too Long (pt. 1)

The ICU is quiet. Nurses and doctors tread on the ground as if it’s a layer of thin glass, the dim lights flicker occasionally and there the patients are silent; the occasional rumble of machinery is the loudest noise.

However, if you travel further down the hall and peek into Room 471, you can hear the soft whispers of one child to another.

“…And Mr. Bare cried out all his sorrows even if he was scared of what others would say and-”

The boy laughs as he turns to the last page of the book, “Geez, this ending is pretty disappointing Ben. All that reading for nothing,” he huffs and pokes his tongue out, “You wouldn’t like it at all.”

Ben is lying motionlessly in the hospital bed. Strapped to machines and poked with needles, he’s deathly pale and with his eyes closed, the cold display of a heart monitor is the only thing showing signs of life. His brother closes the book and gently places it on the table.

Two small boys, alone at the wee dawn of morning: one asleep and near death; the other tired and grieving something not yet lost. There is nothing anyone can do. Death watches them, peaking through the small glass frame in the door. This feels too private, too intimate for it to disturb. Regret lingers; it wishes that it were not here.

“What should I read next? I mean, you always liked We’re Going on a Bear Hunt, but like, I’ve read it so many times I could probably do it without even looking at the book.” He wrinkles his nose in distaste.

“Maybe Possum Magic? Nah. Edward the Emu is better but it’s at home.”

“I should… probably read We’re Going on a Bear Hunt, huh? What sort of bad brother am I… to get bored of my baby bro’s favourite book?”

He snorts again and digs through the pile of storybooks. The book sits comfortably on his lap and he flips open to the first page.

“We’re going on a bear hu-” his breath hitches and he hides it in his giggles before continuing, “h-hunt. We’re gonna catch a big one.”

He looks up, eyes flickering between his brother and the heart monitor, “What a beau-”

His voice cracks. He doesn’t continue again. The boy chokes out a sob, his hands clutching the book so hard now that there are creases on the page. A tear falls. And then another. And then another. He’s crying, quietly whimpering as his shoulders tense and he curls into himself. Small, so small that it hurts Death to look.

“H-hey mister, if you’re gonna watch just co-come in.”

Is he… talking to it? It moves on impulse, gliding through the door and facing the boy. He rubs his eyes and looks directly at it, smiling shakily,

“Oh wow, um,” he lets out a breathy laugh, “It’s kinda embarrassing you saw all that mister.”

Can you… see me?

Death would widen its eyes if it had any.

“Er yeah. Um, my name is Mike – Michael actually, but that’s way too long – what’s yours?”

I’m Death.

Mike looks down, far too composed and mature for any his age should be, “Yeah well, I thought so. Ahaha, so you’re here to take Ben t-to H-heaven… right?”

…I’m sorry.

“Oh god, no, um, if I got a dollar for every time someone said that Dad might actually be here instead of home.” Mike closes the story book in his arms. He’s shaking and Death wishes it could do something. “Y’know, Mum couldn’t handle two kids with cancer, so she left right? But the funny thing is that Dad might as well have gone with her, cause he’s never here either.”

“I don’t really blame ‘em either, ‘cause wow! Your one kid gets into a remission and then suddenly the other gets incurable lung cancer and now you have to like, dedicate so much other effort.”

You’re bitter.

Mike widens his eyes and laughs again, “Well, yeah, guess I am.”

“Not really for me, ‘cause I was a real pain when I was sick but Ben - Ben’s amazing y’know? He never complained once about how Mum left or Dad never visits or how I’m such an awful big brother and he just takes everything he’s given.” He takes a deep breath, “and it’s not fair okay? Like, I get to live and better while he’s stuck in a gross hospital bed 24/7 and now- and now he’s going to actually die.”

He spits the last word out like venom. His eyes are criss-crossed red bloodshot and there are still tears in his eyes. Death is sorry. It’s sorry, sorry, sorry, but sorries will do nothing for Mike or his brother. So instead it rests closely to Mike and,

There is time… Still. What was Ben like?

Mike blinks, and a tear slides down his cheek. “Well,” his voice cracks, “Ben really likes reading. His Make-A-Wish was to rent out a library and try and read as many books as possible.”

His finger glides across the words of the scrunched-up picture book. He whispers beneath his breath, “Sorry for creasing the pages, little brother.”

Turning back to Death, he continues, “He really liked- likes learning weird languages too. Like, the language of flowers oh, and morse code. Ben was- is really good at morse code and he tried teaching me once but then an old man told me they were all swear words.”

Mike laughs, “Aw man, that was a conversation. I didn’t know he had any of those prank genes ‘til then. And then it just started getting worse. Like one time, he tipped a water bucket on my head when I opened the door and the worst part is that all the nurses were in on it.”

That is rather funny.

“…You don’t get much company do you, old man?”

Death is quite amused.

No.

“Well yeah, I can tell.” he grins, “Thankfully I am a master of conversation.”

“And besides, I could talk about Ben for like, a billion years.”

That is quite a long time. And I would know.

“Huh, you really are old.”

Yes, that I am.

Death is not only old, it is lonely. It is so, so lonely. It hates how much it loves talking to this boy whom it has plagued insurmountable hardships. It wills for it to be wrong; it wills for Ben to get well. Mike doesn’t waste any time and narrates other humorous occasions with pure adoration in his voice. The minutes tick and it’s been, ten, fifteen, twenty without any change. Death wants to be wrong. It really does want to be wrong.

But then, then the machines begin to beep. The heart monitor begins to quiver, and then dip and dip and dip. Mike stops talking. He clenches the book still in his lap, his eyes not leaving the heart monitor that keeps dropping.

And then… there is silence.

Next

Previous

[roseonhissleeve]

Kiwi: Part Six

A series based in Jamaica during the writing/recording of Harry’s new album.

The recording studio was smaller than Cal thought it would be.

From the outside, it really just looked like a regular house on the beachside. There were large bay windows that faced the water, which revealed a lounging area filled with several eclectic couches and a handful of acoustic guitars that hung on the walls.

They had spent most of the ten-minute walk in silence. Not the uncomfortable kind, by any means—but he could tell that there was something deeper going on in her mind, and he didn’t want to somehow made her feel pressured in any way.

He also couldn’t help but feel a tad bit nervous.

He couldn’t stop thinking about the words that she’d said back in the bar. Why did he like her? What was it about her that drew him to her so strongly, that made it so hard for him to just say goodbye and walk away?

The front of the beach house was adorned with a bright blue door that was decorated with a golden doorknob. There were several plants that hung off of the ceiling of the porch, and there were a few lounge chairs that had been set up. It was illuminated by a row of three lamps that hung from the ceiling, and the light of the moon reflected off of the water. The palm trees framed the home nicely—as Harry unlocked the front door and swung it open so they could head inside, she could smell the scent of rainclouds rolling onto the island.

“So this is where you hang out?” Cal asked, her eyes scanning the room as she walked inside. The front door opened right into the same sitting area she saw earlier with the bright colored couches and the acoustic guitars, except there were pictures that were hanging off of the walls which she didn’t see at first.

Some of them were abstract—colors and shaped that had been layered atop of each other in a way which made the artist feel something. Others were pictures: one of the Big Ben in London, another of the New York City Skyline, for example. It was an odd mix and match of art pieces, but they somehow went together perfectly.

“This is where I hang out…when you’re not dragging me around the island, that is,” he added, smiling. She couldn’t help but smile at his words, the unease that she had felt earlier already slightly dissipating.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” she teased back halfheartedly, walking deeper into the room. Harry watched her as she looked around, and he smiled at the way she seemed to genuinely look at every square inch of what was put in front of her.

Most people rushed through every second of their lives. She might have been the only person he’d ever met who actually preferred to be at a stand-still.

“C’mere, I wanna show you something,” he held out his hand, his green eyes a deep shade of understanding and care. When she looked into them she couldn’t help but feel safe, and so she settled her hand into his for the first time since he’d left her bed that morning and walked down the hallway with him.

He walked through the hall slowly, flicking on the lights as he went. On the third door on the left he paused—the door was a deep purple, as if it held the secrets of the entire world. He grabbed ahold of the golden doorknob and swung the door open, holding his breath with giddiness as he walked inside.

Cal followed him, and when her eyes adjusted to the room in front of her, her mouth opened slightly in awe.

The first thing she noticed was the soundbooth. There was a large glass panel that separated them from the small room at the opposite wall—the room itself was covered in a wallpaper that was made up of posters and album covers. Covered, as in head to toe—so many records that she recognized adorned the walls in the booth, like the Beatles, Queen, KISS, Michael Jackson, Journey, piles and piles of music that she grew up listening to.

And then there were a few of them that she had never even heard of. Bands that were my no means A-listers but still came and left their mark on the place, and there was something so beautiful about the collage of old and new talent that decorated the walls.

Outside of the soundbooth there was a large panel with at least a hundred switches and buttons that she could never possibly come close to understanding what they do.

At the top left corner of the panel there was a small “Recording” sign that she assumed lit up when someone was recording in the booth. There was sheet music splayed across the panel with scribbles here and there, and there was a single cup of coffee on top of it that was still half-filled. Perpendicular to the panel was a few computer monitors that had some sort of recording software open, sound waves decorating the screen.

The entire room had a particular smell that she couldn’t describe—it was like the smell of books in an old library, or a stack of old vinyls that hadn’t been listened to in a decade. It was the smell of your mother’s freshly baked cookies when you came home from school in your childhood, or the smell of your first love on that first date that you’ll never forget.

“So this is where the magic happens?” Cal smiled, distracted from her previous worries. She took a seat at the chair in front of the sound panel, afraid to touch any of the switches and buttons.

“This is my ocean,” he nodded, his hands tucked into the pocket of his jeans.

He watched her as she leaned over the panel and read the labels underneath the switches and buttons, a hint of a smile on her features. The soft, dimmed light of the room cast a tender shadow over her features, and they made her look like she belonged.

This was the second time that he’d seen her out of her element—the first one, right before they’d kissed. And both times, she hadn’t panicked or retreated.

She was quiet, and she took her time. Whereas her persona is usually loud and strong and outgoing, this side of her was calm and patient, and everything that he suspected she liked to hide. Both sides of her were every bit as confident and powerful, and both shook him to the core.

“You’re not an enigma,” he spoke suddenly, causing her to look up from the panel.

“Hmm?”

“You’re not an enigma,” he repeated, his eyes filled with certainty. “You said that the only reason I like you is because you are. But you aren’t…the rest of the world is a fucking enigma. And I think that you might be the only person on it that has a chance of figuring it out.”

“I think that you get the idea that you’re damaged somehow,” he continues, walking towards her so that he can take a seat in the chair beside hers, spinning it so that he can face her directly. “An’ I dunno why that is, or your history…but I know that you jump off cliffs and then get lost in the water. I know that you ride waves and then sit to watch the sunset. I know that you threw a pitcher of cold water at me the first night we met, and ever since then I can’t get you outta my head.”

As she looked at him and listened to his words, she smiled, wider than she had in a really long time.

She really looked at him: this man who was sitting in front of her, putting into words why he seemed to spend so much time with someone who has proclaimed themselves to be broken. This man who had billions of dollars to his name, but still spent an hour trying to stand upright on a surfboard just because it was something she loved. This man who pulled her away from a bar fight not because he thought he could do better than her, but because he didn’t want her to get hurt.

He never wanted her to get hurt, she realized.

She didn’t know why she ever thought that he would.

“It does something t’me when you look at me like that,” he interrupted her thoughts, his own smile appearing across his lips. “I don’t even think you realize you do it—but every once in a while I catch yeh looking at me like m’not as scary as you think I am.”

“It’s terrifying,” Cal admitted, her voice quiet. “Not you…I think the thought of losing you is terrifying. And then the fact that I already don’t want to lose you, is even more terrifying. The whole thing…”

“Terrifying,” he finished with a soft chuckle. “But me?”

“Not terrifying,” she reassured him, reaching to set her hand across his cheek. She ran her thumb across the surface of his chin, the scratchy bit of stubble that had started growing tickling the pad of her finger. “You’re what makes the fear worth it, I think.”

The smile on his face was breathtaking.

She leaned in to nuzzle the tip of her nose against his, and she could hear his breath catching in his throat. Their knees touched as she leaned in closer to press her lips against his, and even though it certainly wasn’t the first time she’d kissed him, it still felt as new and exciting as the night before.

Suddenly, all she wanted was to be closer to him.

She stood up off of her chair, lips never leaving his as she crawled onto his lap. She straddled his thighs as he wrapped his arms around her waist tenderly, and she sighed at the newfound warmth of his chest.

“Is this okay?” She murmured against his lips, fingertips tickling the short hair just above his ear. He simply nodded in response, his lips chasing hers to press another kiss to her mouth.

“Play me a song,” she requested, pulling back so she could look at his handsome face. She brushed the pad of her thumb across his bottom lip, the look in her eyes filled with serenity.

“You wanna hear one?” He asked, and he’d never felt more nervous to share his music with anyone.

“Mhm,” she nodded, her mouth curving to reveal an exuberant smile. “Jump off a cliff with me, Kiwi.”

How could he say no to her when she smiled at him like that?

He reluctantly tore his gaze away from her to look down at the panel, pressing a few buttons here and there. She was absolutely in awe of how he knew exactly what each one did off the top of his head, and she had so many questions to ask him. She realized that this was the first time they’d really been in his element, in a place where he knew more than she did. And it made her excited to learn about this facet of him that she hadn’t seen before.

Within seconds the room was filled with a soft piano intro, and that first five seconds was enough to give her chills. 

Once he’d pressed play he wrapped his arms around her waist once more, nuzzling his features into her shoulder delicately. She rested her nose within the soft curls atop of his head, closing her eyes as she listened to the music.

The second his voice filled the air, she gasped inaudibly.

Just stop your crying, it’s a sign of the times…

His voice made chills run up and down her spine. He sounded the most vulnerable she’d ever heard—and he felt it as well, his embrace around her frame tightening once the lyrics began.

“Oh…” she exhaled quietly, the falsettos ringing in the background. He simply gave her another squeeze in response, and she thought that she could feel him shivering beneath her.

Once the drums picked up in the chorus along with the strength of his voice, she almost became paralyzed. Her fingers tangled themselves in the curls at the back of his neck and she breathed deeply, puckering her lips softly to leave behind a gentle kiss to the top of his head.

She could feel the tip of his nose brushing against the sensitive skin of her neck, and the electrifying sensation spread to every single inch of her skin.

She didn’t know what she was expecting when she asked to listen to his music. But she wasn’t expecting this.

It was an incredibly humbling sensation, to be cared for by somebody who was capable of creating such beauty.

It was the last two minutes of the song that really got to her.

After a couple of minutes of listening and taking it all in, she was overwhelmed by the almost violent sounds of the instrumentals all picking up in unison. The music was the personification of strength, yet it almost made her feel like it was begging at the same time—desperation, resilience, and power all rolled into a few chords and bars.

And then there were the lyrics.

We don’t talk enough, we should open up before it’s all too much.

Will we ever learn? We’ve been here before…it’s just what we know.

Tears appeared in her eyes as Harry’s words resonated in the center of her chest. His voice almost shook with desperation as he sang them, and she felt it in every single cell of her body—and just when she thought that that was all, she was overwhelmed with a new wave of emotion that came with the final part of the song.

We’ve got to get away.

She sniffed quietly as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him closer, holding him tighter than she ever had. He was running her hands up and down the length of her back, his palms covering her skin. Her toes curled at the sound of his voice almost screaming, pleading in the background as the drums held him up in what seemed like mid-air.

It was the most intimate thing either of them had ever experienced.

And it was in the soft, ethereal piano outro that she realized she was in love with him.

She didn’t know when it happened, exactly. Maybe it happened the day he quite literally followed her off of a cliff. Maybe it was that moment when she watched him try to surf as she sat on the beach. Maybe it was the night he came into the bar for the first time, and made her feel like she could be a superhero.

Or maybe she’d always been in love with Harry. Maybe all her life she was preparing, going through all the events and milestones that she had to reach in order to bring her here to Jamaica, at the exact time in which he’d find her. Or maybe she found him?

Maybe the center of the universe wasn’t a place—maybe it was the time in which everything suddenly makes sense.

It took her a few minutes to realize that they were now sitting in silence. She stayed completely still, tears lingering in her eyes as she inhaled softly—her senses were filled with the scent of Harry’s shampoo, and she could feel every single point of contact between her body and his.

“Can…can we listen again?” She whispered quietly, finding her courage. He pulled his features out of the crook of her neck and looked up at her—when he saw that she was crying he furrowed his brows, brushing a stray tear away with his thumb as he spoke softly.

“You like it?”

“I love it,” she said without missing a beat. He didn’t know it then, but those three words carried more meaning than he realized.

He leaned in to press a lingering kiss against her lips, and she came to the conclusion that she could get used to this new method of communication between them.

Maybe the center of the universe was right there, in a small recording studio on the island country of Jamaica.

Kiwi: Part Seven

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[fulloflesbeans]

Hazel Eyes & Cake Pops [Ch. 6]

Read on Ao3 here

It was finally the weekend. I was still livid on what happened in the library. I was up late until four AM, actually finishing homework and signed up for the two classes, and finally went to sleep when every channel on TV was some paid programming.

I was at home with Rachel while Chloe was at work, lazing around on the couch while the TV was on. We were still in our pajamas and paying more attention to our phones than each other.

Most of the time, Rachel was on her Instagram and checking her likes and comments. I was surprised Rachel was able to stay up to date with her Instagram account; Chloe must have been taking her to more places than she tells me. However, I, on the other hand, was still getting random text messages from a random number. I knew who it was, but it has been a year since I have seen him.

"Rachel," I put my phone down, wondering if I should block the number, "How do you deal with an ex that won't leave you alone?"

"Like in person or by phone?" She looked at me right away. She was bundled in her oversized hoodie and sweatpants, her hair up in a ponytail and sitting against the very end of the couch with her legs to her chest.

"It's by phone right now. He keeps texting me and asking to hang out." I crossed my arms. I leaned back and saw on Rachel's phone that she was Twitter now.

He has never texted like this before. Asking so many questions, wanting to see each other again, I was more freaked out then anything.

"I would block him. How do you know it's him and not some creeper that got your number?"

"Well, the first things he sent were like "miss you" and some lovey-dovey stuff. Plus, he's the only person I've dated, I don't know anyone who would give my number like that."

"That's true. If it took this long to text you again, he must still be single too."

It was a possibility. The thought of even seeing him again made my heart sink. It didn't end bad, but I felt like I just lead him on. I left Arcadia Bay to get away from all that shit and if it was following me, I would lose my mind. I took my phone again, went to his number, but my thumb hovered over the "block" option. He seemed hurt enough through these messages, but I never wanted to see them again.

"I can see you hesitating." Rachel addressed it in a worrying tone.

"I don't know why I am."

"Okay, then," she grabbed my phone and turned the screen off, "You don't have to do it right now. We should do something."

"What is something?"

Last time she made me do something, I ate at the bar of a club. I didn't hate her ideas, they really did help, but they were still more in her terms of "fun." It was an experience, at the very least.

I was back to my old habits of only drinking coffee, against Rachel’s plans, but she tolerated it for the day.

"Is there something you want to do?" She asked with a smile.

I thought about it. There were a lot of things that we've done, but not just the two of us. I answered, "I kinda always wondered what it was like to shop with you. We could go to an outlet and go into—"

"Done," she stood up and went into the bedroom, "I need to shower. Would you like to Uber?"

Her head was peeking out of the door as she asked.

"Yeah, I had enough of that limo."

"You got it."

Rachel threw on yet another flannel and ripped jeans. She loved her blue flannel and wore it for most occasions. I was back in my grey jacket and blue jeans; she was still dressed better than me. I never realized how far we actually lived from all the places we went to; I just went along with Chloe.

We walked out the apartment complex, greeted a few neighbors on the way out and into the warm weather. Our sleeves were way too long for the heat, we were already sweating and we were only out for a minute.

“Holy fuck, it’s hot today.” She fanned herself. She didn’t seem to mind, though.

“Yeah, we shouldn’t have layered so much.”

"You're right about that," Rachel turned to me, "Listen, I'm thinking of shopping for you. Your style is getting there, but I want to get something for you. You're literally wearing the outfit you wore every single day at Blackwell."

"I was going to ask you to. I need help." I laughed at my outfit I had on. It was the first thing I saw in my closet. It didn't help that I had my hair down again.

"I got you, Max. I already have some ideas and it just might impress Kate." Rachel winked at me.

"You should've seen her yesterday. She had her hair in this braid and wearing all black. I was losing my freaking mind."

"I thought you were losing your mind when you were hitting your head, but sure, it was her."

I shrugged my shoulders. I was surprised I didn't get a headache from it.

Rachel said it was a red car, a brand-new Honda Civic, so we waited for it while we continued talking about random things like her time in Tokyo and my time stuck in an elevator with the crazy conspiracy guy from the seventh floor. I learned more from him about Hollywood than I ever did in school, I felt like I was starting to believe it all after two hours past.

The ride was uneventful. The driver was playing a playlist of just Gucci Mane and Drake and Rachel was dancing by herself in her seat. I rocked my head from side-to-side, but I wasn't really into it.

We get out, thanked the driver, and started to walk through the outlet. The majority of stores were places like Coach, Prada, Tory Burch, and Michael Kors—all places I would never shop in. The outdoor mall was full of people, mostly foreign people from what I could tell from their languages, holding about ten bags in each hand, there with their families, or just alone.

"Okay, let's start," Rachel scanned through the stores left and right as we strolled through the middle, "What kind of style are you looking for?"

When that sentence ended, I forgot who I was. I stared down at my body, looking at my jeans and Jane Doe shirt. I just wanted to be casual and comfy, but it made me look very awkward. I might also need a bag that was not a messenger? I wasn’t sure.

Rachel started talking again, "I'm thinking you should try a more skater look right now. Chloe has always been a punk ass, so I'm trying not to copy her style."

"So, more plaid is what you're saying?"

"Exactly, but I know you don't really skate, but Chloe and I can teach that, too. We should order online too! I've seen some cute off-white sweaters you would love."

"That brand costs hundreds of dollars, right?"

"Yeah... and?" Rachel truly had a lot to spend. I thought about it and there were some nice things we could just get online, but what if she turned me into a fuckboy of some kind? Or was it called fuckgirl?

"Are you going to turn me into a fuckboy, Rachel?" I acted appalled.

"Wow, I didn't even realize I was," Rachel cracked up, "If you want to look at it that way, yeah! There is a Vans store, right there, so we're going in there now!"

We ran into the large store, greeted by the smell of brand new shoes, and went to the women's side first.

"Forty dollars is a lot, but don't worry." Rachel started to look through the racks. I was definitely uncomfortable with that, but she was okay with it. The price was just for sweaters, what was she going to do?

We decided to separate and I aimlessly walked around. It was a little packed inside, because Vans always have a two for the price of one for shoes. It was always dark and loud pop music always played inside. I always liked the brick walls and how lots of jackets and backpacks would line them all the way up to the ceiling. Everything was so expensive now that I paid attention. This was going to the most expensive closet I've ever own, thanks to Rachel being so giving. I past the backpack three times before I decided to stay there.

About thirty minutes pass before I finally heard someone stumbling behind me.

"Max, there you are!" Rachel's arms were full of shirts and flannels.

"Oh, my dog, Rache, what did you find?" I grabbed all the clothes in her left arm.

"A lot of their shirts are really cute, but they're called "boyfriend tees" and that's yikes. I found a bunch of these flannels in red and blue. I found some baseball tees and hoodies and sweaters; I can't wait for you to wear them!"

Everything she had was at least four hundred dollars; I felt lightheaded. I could buy a textbook with that! I knew this wasn't half of it.

"I'm going to buy these, for now, and keep looking." She took the pile back and then went to the line. I snickered a bit, but I appreciated what Rachel was doing. I left the store for a bit and called Chloe. I had to call her twice because she didn't answer the first time.

"Yeah?" She sounded pissed off.

"Are you okay?"

"Sorry, there was this customer that made me want to lose my shit," She growled, "What's up?"

"Rachel and I decided to leave and we went to the outlet. It took a long time, but Rachel is paying for everything."

"Oh, that's cool."

"Do you want anything?" We should get something even if she said no.

"If you want, but I'm happy with everything I have right now."

It wasn't a no, but we should get something small. I was given about fifty dollars from Chloe, so I wasn't left with one dollar anymore. Rachel came up to me with two huge bags; she looked so excited from her smile to the shine in her eyes.

"We'll think about it. Gotta go now, we have more shopping to do."

"'Kay, have fun. Oh, pick you up later?"

"Yes, please. See you later." I put my phone back into my pocket. I took the bags from Rachel and I immediately felt ten times heavier.

"I need to go in there one more time. I saw pants and shoes on the way out for the both of us." Rachel was very animated, but it was also contagious.

"We should get Chloe something," I advised, "That's what I was talking about with her."

"I was planning on it, but in a different store. Is there something in here you want to get her?"

"I was just thinking of a beanie. I want one too, so could you get two?"

"Yeah, just sit somewhere and I'll be out."

I watched as she went back into the store. I faltered a lot towards a nearby bench. It was empty, thankfully. I sat down, loudly. I took my phone out and went through my apps, greeted by those damn text messages again.

It was another thirty minutes before Rachel came back out again, holding three bags. I could tell one had two boxes in it.

She plopped herself next to me; she was still smiling widely.

"Being recognized is tiring sometimes." Rachel flipped her blonde hair. She placed the bags on the empty seats next to us.

"I can't imagine," I sat up straight, "Must be annoying sometimes too."

"That hasn't happened yet. When I'm irritated or it's, you know, the week, I won't leave home. I wouldn't want anyone to feel like I hate them."

I nodded, "I would do the same. So, where to next?"

"I need to go to Versace and Lacoste," she stood up again, "I want to buy Chloe some nice outfits for dates I want to take her on. I'll go to Jimmy Choo and Gucci for myself at the end."

I was rendered speechless by those stores being named so casually.

"By the way, Max, I think a better word to describe your style is just being a tomboy or androgynous, even."

She was doing that to me and Chloe. I was going to surprise myself when we went back home, but I ended up looking in the thirty minutes she was gone. I was actually pretty into it; I think she was just getting me away from the hipster style as much as possible, though.

"Alright, Max," Rachel grabbed two bags, "Let's go."

"Hold on," I took my phone out again, "Strike a pose, Rachel Amber."

She did multiple ones, some she obviously learned from modelling and some she just did awkward poses with two heavy bags. She looked great either way, if it were me, all of them would be bad. I put it away and grabbed the other three bags.

It was a path in the order she named them. When I went into Versace, I felt like throwing up. The prices ranged from as low as three-hundred (for coin purses) and as high as three thousand (for pants). I was intimidated by the name above the opening, black and bold, and it was all gold inside. I couldn't stand being inside because I didn't belong there. Rachel was looking around, got recognized once again and was apparently given a hefty discount. She was looking at pants from a rack next to a mannequin; it was black and looked to be skin tight.

"Do you know Chloe's size?" Rachel asked me.

"Uh... tall?" I choked.

Rachel laughed out, "I know it. I was just testing you."

It was yet another test I have failed.

She ended up with the pants (six-hundred and ninety-five dollars) and a black watch (one-thousand, three-hundred and ninety-five dollars).

"You okay?" Rachel placed her hand on my back. The bags in her hand hit me in the butt.

"... This is a lot of money you're spending." I was barely functioning.

"I'm barely making a dent. I've been checking my account all day."

How much did she have to spend if it was barely?

"I went through hell and back for this career, you know?" She sat down at a bench and I followed her, placing the bags on the floor.

She continued after a deep sigh, "When I met Chloe, she was going through a lot of terrible shit. She thought everyone was out to get her and that she was driving everyone in her life out. And you, I can see you still trying, to this day, to redeem yourself for shit you did. Chloe is a lot more grateful than you think. I admire that and I admire her for getting here. She has changed a lot for good. I just want to spoil you guys because I feel it's deserved."

I nodded as she spoke. Rachel was an amazing person. She was charming and she just knew how to connect with everyone. She wanted happiness in general and did a lot in order to help herself and us. I hoped I didn't look like I was taking any of it for granted.

I finally smiled, "I'm sorry, Rachel. I do love everything you're doing. Even when our furniture is complete garbage.”

"Well, Chloe told me she wanted to earn a better apartment herself," Rachel admitted, "So, clothes are the nicest things I can do for you two."

For the rest of the trip, I only got down what she bought: Lacoste polo and belt, Jimmy Choo heels, and a Gucci leather jacket. I couldn't name all prices, but I'll always remember it all costed five thousand dollars. That made me lightheaded as hell.

Our hands were completely full. Clumsily, I managed to call Chloe again.

"Hey," Chloe answered right away, "I'm in front of Gucci."

"Holy shit, we just came out of that." I said.

"I'll drive closer." she hung up right after.

Rachel and I walked to the street, where the parking lot was, and saw the matte finish car coming up.

When it parked in front of us and Chloe came out, her eyes widened at everything we had.

"Holy fuck, did you buy everything?" Chloe grabbed the ones in Rachel's hands. She gave her a quick peck on her lips and started placing everything in the trunk.

For some reason, my heart skipped a beat watching them. I don't know what the feeling was, but maybe... I was envious?

"I bought you guys new closets." Rachel said very confidently.

"I said it was fine. You didn't have to buy me things."

"I know, but I wanted to."

Chloe put the bags I had into the trunk and shut it loudly, "Alright, time to head home."

Chloe and Rachel spoke to each other in the front seats. It was about her day, Rachel's time at the outlet, what clothes we got, and going out tomorrow. I stayed out of it. They were a happy and normal couple, talking about normal things, and there was me, who looked on. Maybe it was jealous and I wasn’t admitting to it yet; I stared at them with the overwhelming feeling.

Back at our place, we all stumbled as we got out of the elevator with the ten bags we had. We all placed the new articles of clothing on the bed.

I went to the kitchen, I wish we had time to eat at the outlet. All I grabbed was water. Chloe went into the bathroom, after saying that she needed a shower for later. What was she going to do later? I had no idea. Rachel was in the living room, turning the TV on to Fox and it was TMZ. She probably worries a lot about showing up on it. I grabbed two water bottles instead.

I sat next to her, handing the other bottle.

"Thanks." she said and watched the commercial.

I was curious about something. Rachel only briefly talked about how she gained the fame she had. When I compare her to other runway models, she wasn't as tall or as skinny as everyone else. Yet, she showed up on high fashion shows, fashion magazines, commercials for makeup and hair, and had millions following her on her social medias.

We heard the shower stop and Chloe came out, her hair was still damp. Her outfit was just thrown on and it showed enough skin for the warm night.

"Where are you going?" I asked.

"Dana called earlier and she had to teach me how to do everything," Chloe forcefully put her shoes back on, "I said it was fucking stupid, but it was important. So, I have to go now to watch and learn."

"You'll be back in the morning?"

"Yup. Luckily, it's a busy night and I have no work with crabby old assholes tomorrow." She gave Rachel a quick kiss on the lips and then ruffled with my hair, "Love you, I'll see you later."

"Love you too." Rachel's eyes were stuck on the TV.

"See you." I waved.

She left, slamming the door and locking it.

"I saw Rachel Amber at HUE sf last week, with two other girl friends." It cut to a video of all three of us going inside. "She was seen dancing with one of them on the floor and it was getting a little touchy." It cut to a video from afar and zoomed in on Chloe and Rachel grinding and dancing with each other.

"Do you think she's actually gay?"

"I mean if I saw a girl that close with another girl, I would assume so. Or just real drunk."

She only laughed.

"Okay, okay, now everyone knows I'm really gay," She turned to me, "I went out a lot with Chloe and that's all they have? I wasn't being that discreet about it. I need to check my Twitter after this."

I stayed quiet. Every other person would be freaking out right now, but Rachel was such a carefree person. She was going to say it outright and then let it be.

"I can tell there's something on your mind." Rachel put her phone into her back pocket.

"I've always wondered how you got here," I shifted in my seat to face her, "In your career, I mean. You never talked about what you did or how you did it. If it's touchy, I'm sorry, but it was on my mind."

"It's okay. It just never came up and some of it is a little blurry for me," Rachel turned the TV's volume down, "My manager is hella awesome. She took a chance on me and made me work my fucking ass off with classes on walking and posing and how to carry myself. She taught me a lot about being independent and being extra sneaky. She was really strict, especially about Chloe, because I was going to be away a lot and being gay is never talked about. She was just looking out for the both of us. But, what I'm trying to get at is, I always did two-hundred percent more than everyone else did. I don't look like anyone else, but I did everything more and better almost, and that's what attracts people."

I tried to think of ways that could apply to me. Work my ass off and work two-hundred percent more than everyone else. It would be a good mindset to have for school right now. Especially right now with the bad test grade. It could make me more confident and help me talk to Kate, even.

"You're an incredible person, Rachel," I complimented, "I'm grateful to have you in my life and Chloe is beyond grateful, whatever that word is. Usually by now, Chloe would be out drinking and then come back to go out cold. But sometimes, she would cry and bellow about missing you."

I never liked saying the second part. I spent a few nights comforting her and helping her sleep again, and the fact that Chloe has no memory of it, it made those nights surreal. Those times when she would rest her head on my lap and cry on and on, me trying to say something, but she wasn’t listening to me or even herself. I don't know if I should ever bring it up to her; every time I try, my words get caught and I would ignore it once more.

Rachel looked like she was caught off guard by that statement. Saying it aloud, I’ve realized Chloe had a problem. I froze in my seat and we stared at each other. Neither of us knew what to do, except sit in silence and stare each other down.

“Do you want me to talk about it with her?” She sounded ready to pule.

I pressed my lips together, “If you don’t mind.”

She turned the volume back up again. We watched the TMZ segment until it was a commercial again. I couldn’t stop looking at Rachel as she started to become aloof and distant. I’ve seen her like this before. She had her arms crossed and her knees up to her chest, her eyes wide toward the screen. I took a hard gulp.

"Do you want to model the clothes or order more online?" I asked her first. I was sick of watching TV and I hated seeing her like this. I was afraid she was going to snap at me or raise her hand, instead she looked over to me and then smiled.

"I'm offended you think that I wouldn't want to model," Rachel stood up and stretched her arms, "Let's wear these clothes."